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Copyright,  1905,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Published  April,  1905. 


Contents 


42355 


PAGE 

The  Heart's  Key ^ 

Brazenhead  the  Great 3^ 

Buondelmonte's  Saga ^23 

The  Love  Chase ^95 


Cbe  Rearrs  Hey 


Cbe  Reart's  Key 

{To  the  Tiute  of  ''A  la  fontana  del  vergier**) 


IT  is  a  tale  of  love  and  lovers  which  they  tell, 
saying  that  in  the  hill-country  of  Toulouse  is  to 
be  found  the  walled  city  of  Ventadom  with  its 
castle  and  long  church.  Sir  Simon  was  lord  of  it, 
a  vavasour  of  good  Count  Raimon's  in  the  days 
before  his  fall.  The  city  towered  over  two  valleys, 
and  the  castle  over  it ;  there  this  old  vavasour  lived, 
and  kept  great  state  once  upon  a  time,  with  men- 
at-arms  for  his  walls,  and  minstrels,  chamberlains, 
pages,  and  esquires  to  make  cheer  within  doors. 
But  the  days  had  worsened:  his  wife  was  dead, 
his  son  Sir  Bemart  was  in  the  service  of  King  John 
of  England — Landless  they  called  that  king,  who 
tricked  his  father,  and  was  tricked  himself;  now 
all  that  remained  to  Simon  of  Ventadom  were  his 
two  handsome  daughters.  Lady  Saill  and  Lady  Tibors. 
If  I  were  to  relate  all  that  the  troubadours  found 
to  sing  of  these  ladies,  I  should  wearv'  myself  and 
make  no  way  with  you;  for  it  is  quite  true  that 
those   women   stand   highest   in   esteem   of   whom 

3 


Tend   JIdocntures 

history  has  least  to  report.  So  our  hopes  jump, 
and  our  minds  after  them.  Tell  a  man  that  a 
woman  is  fair — fair  Helen,  fair  Cleopatra,  lovely 
Azalais  —  and  he  will  make  her  so  in  his  own 
image.  But  enlarge  upon  her  parts,  tell  over  her 
perfections  on  the  fingers,  he  will  say  of  one  at 
least,  "H'm,  not  to  my  taste."  This  is  certain. 
Of  Lady  Saill,  then,  and  of  Lady  Tibors,  I  content 
myself  with  this  much,  that  Saill  was  the  elder 
and  more  superb,  a  golden  lady  with  long  yellow 
hair  like  Helen's  of  Troy,  and  of  fierce  face,  like 
the  Siren's  when  she  has  drowned  a  man.  Tibors 
was  brown-haired  and  rather  pale — a  sleek,  laugh- 
ing girl.  Saill,  when  she  laughed  at  all,  laughed 
cruelly,  with  dreadful  mirth.  There  were  no  more 
lovely  ladies  in  all  the  County  of  Toulouse,  and 
none  more  various.  Men  who  sang  of  them — 
and  all  men  sang  of  them — called  Saill  the  Proud 
Lady,  and  Tibors,  because  of  her  kindness,  the 
Laughing  Lover.  Enough  of  this  and  of  them: 
it  will  be  easily  seen  from  so  much  whither  the 
striving  went.  A  man  will  always  sniff  at  what 
lies  to  hand;  if  above  him,  just  out  of  reach,  he 
sees  a  prize  made  rarer  by  the  distance.  To  Tibors* 
one  or  two,  Saill,  they  say,  had  fifty  lovers;  but 
the  deeds  of  three  are  all  that  can  be  handled  just 
now — these,  and  the  deeds  of  an  obscure  fourth 
lover,  who  watched  the  others  reap  what  they  sowed, 
and  afterwards  went  gleaning,  and  was  content. 
The   three  were  Jauffrai   of   Brieuc,   a   very  noble 

4 


the  l)Cdrt'$  Key 

youth,  full  of  mettle,  who  made  good  songs;  the 
Monk  of  Quesle,  a  man  of  the  Church,  who  made 
better;  and  the  Viscount  Ebles,  a  great  man  from 
Roussillon,  who  made  no  songs  at  all  unless  he  were 
fighting,  and  then  he  sang  a  sharp  low  song  like 
the  whistle  of  a  sword  in  the  air,  which  indeed  was 
the  instrument  he  played  on  better  than  any.  As 
for  the  fourth  lover,  he  was  Guillem  of  N  ant  oil,  a 
poor  minstrel,  with  a  cropped  head,  meek  eyes,  and 
smooth  face,  whom  nobody  thought  a  lover  at  all, 
and  who  in  his  service  never  lifted  his  looks  higher 
than  Lady  Saill's  knee.  He  kept  his  looks  thus 
modestly  low,  and  his  thoughts  to  himself  and 
the  Virgin  Mary.  She,  and  she  only,  knew  that 
every  night  when  Saill  went  to  bed  Guillem  kissed 
the  edge  of  her  bliaut  as  she  left  the  hall,  kissed 
the  lintel  of  the  door  where  her  hand  had  stayed, 
and  returning  when  she  was  gone,  kissed  the  cushion 
where  she  had  rested  her  head. 

Now,  on  a  day  in  autumn  after  the  vintage — 
October  was  the  month,  bright  and  clear  the  weather 
— those  three  great  lovers  came  riding  over  the 
brown  hills  to  Ventadorn  to  pay  their  vows  to 
Lady  Saill;  and  the  time  being  an  hour  or  so  short 
of  noon,  the  sun  high  and  the  wind  gentle,  they  all 
went  into  the  orchard  to  sing  coblas  and  talk  about 
love — Tibors  and  Saill,  with  Saill's  three  lovers. 
And  Guillem  the  minstrel  was  there  on  his  service, 
and  brought  a  little  table,  and  set  fruit,  wine,  and 
snow  upon  it. 

5 


Tona  Hdocntures 

Saill  sat  in  an  ivory  chair,  with  Tibors,  her  sister, 
a  Uttle  behind  her  on  her  left  hand.  Tibors  was 
in  a  red  gown,  with  a  jewel  on  her  forehead;  but 
Saill's  gown  was  white,  of  a  thin  silk,  which  fitted 
her  so  closely  as  to  be  a  man's  despair,  to  show 
how  glorious  she  was  and  how  remote.  Her  hair 
was  plaited  up  with  pearls  and  touched  the  ground 
behind  her.  Round  her  waist  was  a  very  broad 
girdle  of  gold,  plates  of  gold  riveted  together  with 
hinges,  and  stuck  with  sard  and  emerald,  of  the 
sort  they  call  a  Heart's  Key,  the  girdle  which  vir- 
gins must  wear  until  they  are  wedded.  She  wore 
it  outwardly  by  day,  and  at  night  next  her  body; 
it  had  never  left  her  yet;  and  the  wonder  of  the 
country  was,  when  or  how  it  would.  Here,  too, 
was  a  mockery:  not  that  the  country  admired,  but 
that  no  one  dared  turn  the  key  or  unlock  the  shrine, 
to  lay  bare  Saill's  heart  and  take  it  in  his  hands. 
And  just  as  the  country  admired,  so  now  these  men 
looked  or  longed,  each  after  his  kind.  Jauffrai  of 
Brieuc  grew  red:  he  was  a  young  man.  The  Monk 
of  Quesle  grew  gray;  but  Viscount  Ebles  would  not 
look  at  all,  for  simple  fear  of  what  he  might  be 
driven  to.  As  for  Guillem,  I  have  told  you  already 
how  far  he  dared  look.  Yet  he  knew  very  well 
about  the  Heart's  Key,  and  every  day  made  a 
prayer  to  Madame  the  Virgin  of  Ventadorn:  "Ma- 
dame, set  the  key  in  my  hands.  I  have  within  me 
what  will  still  the  fire." 

Now,  I  ask  you  to  note  that  in  the  orchard  sat 

6 


1 


CDc   Beart  $   Key 


Saill  in  her  ivory  chair,  with  Tibors  a  httle  behind 
her  on  her  left  hand,  but  not  so  far  that  she  could 
not  lean  her  cheek  to  her  sister's  or  put  her  chin 
on  her  white  shoulder.  On  her  right  hand,  also  a 
little  behind  her,  sat  Sir  Jauffrai,  where  he  could 
win  the  fragrance  of  her  hair,  and  secretly  touch  it 
when  his  need  was  sore.  The  Monk  of  Quesle  was 
on  her  left  hand,  near  enough  to  brush  against  her 
gown,  and  a  Httle  in  front  of  Tibors.  Viscount 
Ebles  fronted  her  with  folded  arms  across  the  table, 
watching  her,  or  Tibors,  or  the  other  two,  as  he 
felt  incHned.  Guillem,  the  minstrel,  stood  at  his 
service  a  certain  way  off,  under  a  pear-tree. 

They  made  music  and  songs  concerning  Saill. 
Jauffrai  touched  first  his  viol  to  tune  it,  then  sang 
a  trembhng  song  of  dawn  and  the  white  hght  steal- 
ing round  the  hills,  of  the  sort  which  in  that  coun- 
try they  call  an  Alba.  ''Lady,"  ran  the  song,  "I  wish 
that  with  me  you  might  creep  from  your  father's 
house  at  that  hour  when  the  martins  peer  first  from 
under  the  eaves.  Not  more  softly  lieth  sleep  upon 
your  eyelids,  lady,  than  the  white  dew  upon  the 
grass.  There  are  no  shadows  at  all,  but  every  tree 
and  every  drowsy  flower  stands  bathed  in  a  lake  of 
light,  that  cometh  none  can  tell  whence,  that  is 
not  shamed  by  the  moon,  neither  welcometh  the 
sun.  Truly,  it  would  seem  that  the  Hght  is  no  bor- 
rowed thing,  but  lifteth  up,  as  it  were,  from  the 
deep  bosom  and  parted  lips  of  the  Earth  herself. 
So  it  is  with  you,  lady,  whose  own  fire,  whose  own 

7 


Tend   Jfdocnturcs 

light,  and  ardent  heart  suffice  you.  All  night  I 
watch  for  you,  leaning  by  the  walls  of  Ventadorn, 
just  as  I  watch  for  the  white  dawn  upon  the  hills 
about  it;  all  night  I  make  prayers  to  assure  myself. 
And  dawn  cometh,  and  you  come,  and  I  lift  up 
heart  and  hands,  cr>4ng,  'Oy\  Dens  I  Oy,  Dens! 
Deh,  Valba  tantost  vehr—' Ah,  Lord  God!  Ah,  Lord 
God!     Lo,  now,  the  Dawn  is  here!'  " 

This  was  the  song  that  Jauffrai  sang;  through 
which  breathed  such  a  tender  heat,  such  rapture 
held  in  check,  such  hope  and  wistfulness  to  make 
the  music  shudder,  that  all  the  company  was  silent 
w^hen  he  had  done.  Tibors,  leaning  her  chin  on  her 
sister's  shoulder,  whispered  in  her  ear:  "Oh,  Saill, 
that  is  a  good  song,  which  should  not  go  unrewarded." 

Saill  said  nothing ;  but  she  let  drop  her  right  hand 
behind  her  chair,  and  Jauffrai,  bowing  over  it,  took 
and  kissed  it. 

Then  said  Viscount  Ebles,  with  an  oath  in  his 
beard,  "By  God's  death.  Lady  Saill,  but  the  song  I 
sing  goes  sharper  than  De  Brieuc's.  When  I  sing 
it  all  the  listeners  begin  to  wail,  urging,  'Quick, 
lord,  the  mercy  stroke!'  I  sing  not  at  dawn,  in  the 
half  light,  but  at  broad  noon,  rather,  when  the  sun 
can  see  my  doings.  And  it  is  not  I  who  drone  the 
burden,  'Oy,  Deus !  Oy,  Deus !'  but  the  people  to 
whom  I  sing.  When  I  sing  my  song  one  man  looks 
askance  at  his  neighbor,  as  if  to  say,  'Is  this  a  god, 
then  ?'  My  song  hath  a  note  of  the  scythe  in  wet 
grass,  and  again  of  the  screaming  eagle;  it  savors 

8 


of  the  low-chuckling  owl  when  he  hunts  the  parks 
of  a  night,  and  of  the  hiss  of  a  snake  in  a  stony 
place,  and  of  the  short  snapping  bark  of  the  winter 
wolf.  So  I  call  my  song  the  Song  of  Lop  (which 
is  to  say.  Of  the  Wolf) ;  and  when  I  sing  it  a  blue 
flame  playeth  about  my  head,  the  spears  work  in 
vain,  the  archers  throw  away  their  bows,  and  my 
horse  picketh  up  his  feet  among  the  spoiled  bodies 
of  men.  This  is  the  Song  of  Lop,  which  is  my 
song.  If  it  please  you  not,  lovely  Saill,  I  am  sorry, 
for  I  cannot  amend  it.  Yet  some  think  it  good,  and 
these  are  the  men  of  Toulouse  dressing  their  vines 
on  the  hill;  and  some  think  it  bad,  and  these  are 
Frenchmen  and  the  men  of  the  EngUsh  king." 

The  Viscount  shut  his  mouth  like  a  trap,  and  his 
black  beard  covered  it.  He  looked  a  great  fighter, 
who  should  make  a  lover  no  less  great ;  and  so  Tibors 
thought  and  so  said.  For  now  she  leaned  her  cheek 
to  Saill's,  and  whispered,  "By  the  faith  of  a  Christian, 
Saill,  that  is  a  brave  singer  with  a  song  full  of  matter. 
Let  him  have  his  reward:  it  is  little  enough  he  asks." 
Saill  considered  these  words  and  Viscount  Ebles 
together.  She  saw  the  man  goodly,  and  found  that 
the  words  fitted  him.  So  then  she  put  her  foot  out 
under  the  table,  which,  when  the  Viscount  felt,  his 
blood  started  in  his  neck  and  colored  all  his  face 
with  crimson.  The  courtesy  made  a  giant  of  him; 
he  dared  to  look  at  Saill;  but  Saill  blushed  and 
looked  down.  So  now  she  had  dropped  both  hand 
and  eyes. 

9 


fond   JHdt^cntures 

Then  the  Monk  of  Quesle,  a  keen-faced  man, 
touched  the  strings  of  his  rote,  and  thus  sang  he: 
"Neither  the  hope  of  dawn  nor  the  satiety  of  the 
noon-heat  sing  I,  Lady  Saill;  but  the  blue  calms, 
the  very  steadfast  silver  stars,  the  thin  new  moon 
over  the  hill,  the  dusk,  the  end  of  fret,  the  even- 
ing. My  song  is  a  Sirena,  which  goes  quietly  as 
my  constant  heart,  saying,  'Peace,  my  soul,  peace, 
my  soul,  the  long  day  is  done!' 

"And  I  sing  it  to  you,  lady,  claiming  the  end  of 
strife.  Love  in  the  beginning  is  a  fire,  like  the 
flame  of  kindling  wood,  which  leaps  and  roars  in 
the  heart,  and  devours  the  very  bones  of  young 
lovers.  Not  so,  by  insurgent  rushes,  cry  of  battle, 
blood  and  rage,  should  a  gentle  lady  be  won  to  her 
lover's  arms.  No,  no,  but  by  long  gazing  out  of 
quiet  eyes,  by  patient  smiling,  by  a  bent  knee  and 
obsequious  head,  and  by  the  little  shrug  which  says, 
'Eh,  if  she  will  not,  she  will  not:  wait  a  bit!'  Also 
by  a  whisper  in  the  hedged  garden,  and  a  sigh  at 
the  going  to  bed.  For,  look  you,  the  age-long  lover 
very  well  knows  that  the  burden  and  flood  of  noon 
will  be  done.  The  shadows  creep  fons^ard,  the  bees 
go  home;  in  the  farms  they  milk  the  kine.  The 
bats  come  flickering  out,  the  goat-sucker  goes  pur- 
ring through  the  woods;  all  look  east  for  the  new 
moon.  Then  at  last  the  lover  lifts  his  eyes  and 
counts  the  stars.  The  light  fades,  the  air  is  brown, 
the  sky  faints  out  in  green;  black,  black  stand  up 
spire  and  tower  when  the  sun  is  low  behind  them. 

lO 


the   Bcart's  Key 

Through  the  scented  garden,  among  folded  flowers 
and  leaves  all  breathless  with  sleep,  I  see  you,  Saill, 
come  in  a  white  gown.  Both  your  hands  are  at  the 
Heart's  Key,  both  of  mine  at  yours.  Together  we 
hold  the  burning  thing ;  under  my  hands  I  feel  your 
fingers  at  the  lock.  The  lock  is  solved,  the  girdle 
loosed,  I  have  the  treasure!  All  in  the  violet  night 
I  cry  my  Sirena  :  'Peace,  my  soul,  peace,  my  soul, 
the  long  day  is  done!'" 

Saill  breathed  fast  and  deep;  but  Tibors,  with  a 
cheek  that  pressed  her  sister's  and  an  arm  that 
embraced  her  neck,  whispered  close,  "My  Saill,  that 
is  a  pure  sweet  singer,  ver\'  constant  in  love,  to 
whom  his  reward  should  be  surely  given,  if  the 
others  have  theirs.  Stoop  thy  royal  head,  my  dear, 
that  he  may  touch  what  I  touch.  I  engage  that 
such  velvet  is  not  made  at  Quesle." 

Saill  bent  her  head  to  the  singing  Monk  of  Quesle, 
and  he  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  So  now  she  had 
dropped  both  hand  and  eyes  and  head.  None  the 
less  young  Guillem,  at  his  service  under  the  pear- 
tree,  held  on  with  his  prayer  to  the  Virgin  of  Venta- 
dom,  "Madame  the  Virgin,  star  of  Toulouse,  the 
key,  the  key,  the  key!" 

When  dinner-time  was  over  the  three  lords  took 
their  leave  and  rode  together  out  of  Ventadom  to 
their  own  towns.  The  Monk  of  Quesle  could  not 
contain  himself,  but  turned  in  his  saddle  and  with 
uplifted  hand  began  to  exult. 

II 


Tend   fldoenturc$ 

"Ha,  now,  lords,"  cries  he,  "am  I  or  not  blessed 
above  all  men?  What!  Have  I  sprung  the  citadel 
or  not?  Have  I  closed  at  grapple  with  the  in- 
violate? Have  I  lowered  the  flag  or  not?  You 
know  very  well  that  I  have.  Did  she  not  stoop  her 
indomitable  head  ?  Did  I  pasture  where  no  man 
living  has  laid  his  lips  ?  Is  it  done  ?  Oh,  is  it  not 
done,  by  the  Light  of  the  Earth?" 

Viscount  Ebles  swore  with  a  full  oath.  "By  Saint 
Gregory,  it  is  not  done,  thou  half-man.  What  is 
such  open  trifling  worth?  Catlap,  by  my  Saviour. 
Why,  even  as  she  bowed  her  head  she  looked  wisely 
at  me;  and  long  before  thou  couldst  touch  her  my 
foot  had  touched  hers,  and  so  had  touched  through- 
out thy  song." 

The  Monk  of  Quesle  bit  his  own  hand.  If  ever 
there  was  an  angry  clerk  in  the  country  of  Oc  it 
was  he.  But  Jauffrai  threw  up  his  young  head  like 
a  howling  dog  and  laughed  at  the  sky. 

"Judge  now  betw^een  you,  O  solemn  fools,"  he 
called  out  sharply  —  for  he  was  in  pain  —  "what 
store  to  set  upon  these  touchings  and  lookings  of 
yours.  For  even  when  the  goat-foot  of  Ebles 
bruised  her  slipper  by  mischance  her  hand  was 
snug  in  mine,  and  while  he  sang  of  his  sword-stroke 
I  kissed  it ;  and  when  the  Monk  began  to  sigh  of  the 
evening  breeze,  and  when  he  had  done,  I  kissed 
again.  You  prating  fools,  who  is  blessed  if  not  I  ?" 
Again  he  laughed  bitterly,  as  a  man  should  not 
laugh  at  the  deeds  of  ladies. 

12 


CDc    heart's    K«V 

Ebles  broke  out  in  blasphemy.  "Now  may  God 
die  twice,"  said  he,  "if  I  deal  not  death  quickly." 
He  turned  his  horse  towards  Vent  adorn,  which  lay 
above  him  shining  on  the  hill,  but  before  he  could 
pull  into  a  gallop  the  Monk  of  Quesle  reached  after 
his  bridle,  caught  and  held  it. 

"Listen,  Viscount,"  he  says,  "before  you  do  what 
becomes  you  in  this  ill  business.  Are  we  not  all 
made  fools  together  ?  Is  your  case  worse  than  mine, 
or  mine  than  Jauffrai's?  Not  a  whit,  believe  me; 
but  fool,  fool,  and  fool  again,  we  sit  here.  Well, 
then,  shall  not  the  little  wisdom  of  one  of  us,  added 
to  that  of  the  others,  make  a  wise  head  at  last, — 
wiser,  at  least,  than  one  ?  We  three  will  act  to- 
gether.    Are  you  willing?" 

Cried  young  Jauffrai  de  Brieuc  with  a  yapping 
laugh,  "By  my  soul,  I  accord!  How  long  can  we 
drag  the  woman?  What  kennel  can  we  get  black 
or  thick  enough  for  her  who  mocks  good  lovers?" 

Said  the  Monk,  "Oh,  a  many."  And  then  the 
Viscount,  "My  lords,  I  am  with  you  deep  in  this 
matter.  Let  us  set  the  wits  of  three  offended  men 
to  work."  Riding  together  over  the  hills  among 
the  trampled  vineyards  they  concerted  a  plan.  Saill 
of  Ventadorn  saw  nothing  of  them  till  the  winter- 
time, but  cared  little  for  that. 

That  winter,  about  Candlemas,  the  snow  lay  very 
heavy  on  all  the  country,  and  could  not  be  thawed 
because  of  an  iron  frost.     The  sheep  died  in  the 

13 


Tend   ;iapcRtiire$ 

fields,  fish  in  the  rivers,  birds  on  the  trees,  and  be- 
fore morning  were  found  frozen  hard.  A  most  bit- 
ter wind  blew  night  and  day,  enough  to  search  out 
and  wither  the  very  vitals  of  a  man.  But  war  was 
awake  also.  Old  Simon  of  Montfort,  kept  warm  by 
the  Pope,  took  the  field,  such  as  it  was;  and  the  good 
Count  Raimon  of  Toulouse,  with  him  his  nephew, 
the  Viscount  of  Beziers,  must  needs  fight  for  life, 
whether  snow  awaited  him  or  green  grass.  The 
mesne  lords  of  the  country  were  summoned  by  the 
horn;  sirventes  were  the  only  songs  you  heard; 
Sir  Simon  of  Ventadorn  made  ready  for  Toulouse 
against  that  other  Simon;  all  his  knights,  squires, 
and  men-at-arms  must  go  with  him,  and  Lady  Saill 
have  no  lovers,  save  Guillem  the  minstrel,  w^ho  dared 
look  no  higher  than  her  knee.  Saill  sat  twisting 
and  untwisting  her  white  fingers  by  the  window; 
Guillem  prayed  to  the  Virgin  for  the  Heart's  Key; 
only  Tibors  kept  snug  and  warm.  She  did  her 
loving  quietly,  saying  little;  she  went  laughing  low 
all  day  long.  In  the  Castle  of  Ventadorn  there 
were  only  those  two,  with  Guillem  and  a  few  old 
warders  and  the  women  of  the  household. 

Now,  on  a  night  of  creeping  frost,  and  of  mist 
which  froze  as  it  touched,  clinging  to  the  bare  trees 
— to  Ventadorn,  at  midnight,  came  Ebles,  De 
Brieuc,  and  the  Monk  of  Quesle,  in  armor,  visored, 
with  men,  swords,  and  torches.  They  broke  down 
the  ward  of  the  gate,  and  came  raving  into  the 
castle  garth.     "Ha,   death!     Ha,   Montfort!"   they 

14 


Cfte   Bearrs  Key 

shouted,  naming  the  two  old  dog-wolves,  enemies 
of  Toulouse:  "havoc  on  Ventadorn!  Montfort! 
Fire,  sword,  and  death!"  They  battered  at  the 
gate  with  their  spears. 

Guillem  sat  up  scared  in  his  bed,  and  listened. 
"This  is  a  bad  affair,"  he  said  to  himself.  **  Venta- 
dorn is  surprised.  How  shall  I  save  my  lady?" 
He  dressed  himself  in  haste  and  ran  down  the  cor- 
ridor to  her  chamber.  He  opened  the  door,  he 
crept  in;  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  he  saw  Saill, 
wholly  asleep,  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  and  all  her 
gold  hair  streaming  over  the  pillow  to  the  floor. 

"Wake,  wake,  wake,  my  Lady  Saili!"  he  whis- 
pered. "Death  is  upon  us."  Then  che  sat  up  in 
bed  with  fierce,  reasonable  eyes,  and  he  saw  the 
Heart's  Key  burning  all  about  her  fair  body. 

"Ventadorn  is  surprised,  lady,"  he  ^aid,  blinking 
before  so  much  glory.  "We  must  come  out,  if  we 
are  not  to  die." 

She  said,  "Quick,  a  shift.  Thou  hast  dared  too 
much.     Go  thou  to  the  door  till  I  come." 

Clothed  in  her  linen  shift,  she  came  out  to  him, 
and  they  went  to  awaken  Tibors.  But  Tibors  was 
very  sleepy,  and  would  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  them  than,  "Let  them  come,  but  let  me  sleep. 
Leave  me  in  peace,  Saill."  So  they  let  her  lie,  and 
crept  away  down  a  little  stair. 

Guillem  knew  what  door  to  try,  a  single  turret- 
door  which  gave  on  to  a  swing-bridge,  and  that  on 
to  the  privy  garden.     But  the  forayers,  who  knew 

15 


Tond   JIdvcntures 

it  as  well  as  ever  he  did,  waited  for  him  and  his 
arriving  there;  and  so  soon  as  he  opened  an  inch 
or  two  a  foot  was  in,  which  prized  it  wider.  The 
torches  flared  in  the  black  fog,  a  host  bayed  at  the 
door;  there  came  a  rush,  with  "Follow,  we  are  in!" 
That  door  which  shut  the  invaders  in  shut  Saill  and 
Guillem  out. 

Saill,  the  delicate  lady,  shivered  and  drew  her 
hair  about  her  neck.  In  a  lit-up  circle  all  round 
hustled  the  gaping  soldiers,  their  pikes,  their  torches, 
the  clouds  of  their  freezing  breath.  "Follow  me, 
the  pair  of  you,  or  you  w4n  cold  quarters  in  the 
fosse,"  said  a  man  in  steel,  who  wore  his  visor  down. 
The  shamed  couple  were  led  away  to  the  great  court- 
yard, where,  in  happier  times.  Sir  Simon  of  Venta- 
dom  held  tourney,  and  Saill  sat  in  a  galler}'  as  Queen 
of  Love.  There,  in  the  trampled  snow,  frozen  into 
sharp  ridge  and  furrow,  Saill's  cut  feet  left  a  trail  of 
red  for  all  to  see  next  day. 

"Into  the  middle  with  you."  There,  shivering, 
side  by  side  they  stood. 

Above  them  soon  shone  a  light  in  the  windows 
of  the  parvise,  and  showed  it  full  of  armed  knights. 
One  set  open  the  windows.  Saill  saw  Ebles,  De 
Brieuc,  and  the  Monk  of  Quesle,  midmost  of  their 
party,  wagging  their.*!lieads,  gj'inning  at  each  other 
and  at  her. 

"Light  there,  ho!"  cried  the  Monk,  in  a  new, 
fierce  voice.     They  Heat  up  the  torches  into  flame. 

"Ha,  now,  proud  lady,"  roared  Viscount   Ebles 

i6  i 


i 


Cbe   Bcarrs   Key 

like  thunder;  "you  have  heard  my  song  sung,  the 
Song  of  Lop — what  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

She  said  between  her  teeth,  "Shame  on  you  to 
shame  a  lady  so." 

But  he  answered,  "What,  then,  of  a  lady  that 
mocks  three  lovers  at  once?" 

Then  the  Monk  laughed,  saying,  "Ah,  Lady  Saill, 
Lady  Saill,  now  you  have  found  out  that  my  old 
Sirena  was  more  peaceful  than  my  new.  What  will 
you  do  to  be  let  in?" 

She  asked,  "What  must  I  do?" 

Jauffrai  lifted  up  his  sharp  voice,  "You  shall  do 
to  him  you  have  there  as  you  did  to  us,  before  we 
let  you  in.  Give  him  the  hand  to  kiss  which  falsely 
you  gave  to  me." 

Saill  held  out  her  hand,  and  Guillem  knelt  to 
kiss  it. 

"Now,"  said  she,  "my  lords,  let  me  in." 

"By  the  Five  Wounds,"  swore  Ebles,  "not  so. 
Set  you  first  your  foot  below  his,  Saill.  What  I 
touched  let  him  touch  now." 

She  put  her  torn  foot  out,  and  Guillem,  kneeling 
still,  kissed  it  manv  times. 

"Is  it  enough  now?"  said  Saill. 

The  Monk  of  Quesle  held  up  his  torch  that  he 
might  see  her  the  better. 

"Not  enough,  my  Saill,  not  enough!  Stoop  your 
false  head,  and  turn  your  false  cheek  to  the  lad  there. 
Let  him  taste  what  I  found  bitter!" 

She  did  as  she  was  told;  but  Guillem,  blind  with 

17 


I 


Tend    Jfdoentures 

tears,  put  up  his  face  at  random,  and  instead  of 
her  cheek  kissed  the  side  of  her  frozen  mouth.  And 
when  he  found  how  cold  to  death  she  was,  his  words 
burst  from  him  unadvisedly,  and  he  cried  to  the 
three  lords: 

"Ah,  sirs,  have  pity  upon  so  fair  a  thing!  For 
all  the  years  of  my  service  I  have  loved  this  lady, 
and  never  yet  have  dared  to  touch  more  than  the 
hem  of  her  gown.  If  she  can  stoop  so  low  as  this, 
surely  she  is  punished  enough.  By  Heaven,  my 
lords,  you  will  answer  Heaven  for  it  at  the  Last 
Day!     Let  her  in!" 

They  all  cried  together,  "The  brave  lover!  Give 
him  the  Heart's  Key,  Saill.  Let  him  open  the  door 
with  that,  and  then  we  open." 

Saill  said  fiercely,  "That  shall  never  be.  I  will 
die  rather."  And  Guillem,  too,  cried  out,  "I  had 
rather  she  died  here  and  froze  to  the  ground  than 
that  she  should  suffer,  or  I  do,  such  indignity  as 
that!" 

"Out  with  you  then!"  cried  the  three.  "Give  it 
where  you  will,  sell  or  barter  it,  but  here  you  shall 
never  trade."  Then  they  shut  the  windows,  and 
put  out  all  the  lights ;  and  soldiers  took  Saill  and 
Guillem  by  the  shoulders  and  drove  them  before  to 
the  city  gates,  and  shut  them  outside.  They  heard 
the  wind  howling  round  the  watch-towers,  saw  the 
great  icicles  stick  out  like  giant's  fingers  pointing 
scorn,  and  before  them,  dimly,  the  far-ranging  hills 
all  in  a  shroud  of  white.     Saill  struck  herself  upon 

i8 


the  bosom,  praying,  "Mother  of  God,  send  death 
quickly.  Amen!"  But  Guillem  whipped  off  his  jack- 
et, and  put  it  over  her  shoulders. 

"Lady,  more  dear  to  me  than  life,"  says  he,  "take 
my  doublet  and  put  it  on  thee,  lest  the  frost  bite  in, 
and  thy  dreadful  prayer  be  heard.  For  my  part,  I 
will  make  no  such  a  prayer."  She  did  his  bidding, 
and  he  fastened  the  coat  across  her  chest,  since  her 
fingers  were  like  stones.  He  gave  her  also  his  shoes 
and  stockings,  telling  her  that  they  were  very  neces- 
sary for  her,  seeing  they  had  two  valleys  to  cross. 
When  all  was  done  as  he  would,  Guillem,  bare  to 
the  shirt,  urged  her  ardently.  "Oh,  come,"  he 
cried;  "oh,  come,  thou  loveliest  companion  in  all 
the  world!  Come  with  me  now  across  the  bitter 
fields,  on  a  good  pilgrimage." 

She  looked  at  him  in  her  fell  old  way,  amazed  to 
see  so  much  spirit  in  a  youth  who  had  served  her 
on  his  knee,  and  never  looked  higher  than  hers ;  but 
remembering  how  she  stood,  beggared  of  all  else, 
and  looking  down  to  see  what  plight  she  was  in, 
she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands:  "O  Virgin,  Lady  of 
Seven  Dolours,  what  am  I  to  withstand  any  man 
born'"  she  moaned  to  herself;  then  gave  her  hand 
to  Guillem,  saying  very  meekh%  "Yes,  I  will  follow 
thee,  good  Guillem." 

So  they  set  off  through  the  smothered  vineyards 
and  fields  of  olive  trees,  where  the  snow  was  un- 
trampled  yet,  save  by  the  criss-cross  of  the  anxious 
birds.     They  reached  the  valley,  crossed  the  river 

19 


Tond   JIdventurc$ 

on  hard  ice,  and  so  gained  the  flank  of  the  farther 
hills,  and  began  to  climb,  with  few  words  said.  Now 
and  then  Saill  would  sob  under  her  breath,  or  flag 
a  little,  and  then,  for  certain,  Guillem  would  bear  her 
up  with  his  arm.  She  would  stop  to  pant,  and  he 
embrace  her  so  while  she  recovered  herself ;  she  would 
lay  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  Guillem  whisper 
in  her  ear,  "Cry  unto  your  courage.  Proud  Lady; 
keep  a  good  heart.     Shelter  is  not  very  far." 

"Where  is  this  shelter,  Guillem?"  she  asked  him 
once. 

"It  is  at  Nantoil,  lady,"  he  said,  "where  I  was 
born." 

At  the  top  of  the  hills  they  struck  the  great  road 
to  Marseille,  and  then  at  the  four  ways  under  a 
cross,  found  a  dead  man  in  the  snow,  frozen  to  the 
degrees  of  the  cross.  "God  help  the  fled  soul  of 
him,"  says  Guillem,  "as  He  hath  helped  me  to  what 
his  poor  shell  hath  no  need  of."  He  took  his  doub- 
let, breeches,  and  sword,  and  his  cloak  for  Saill,  and 
so  helped  her  along  the  better.  But  now  she  leaned 
on  him  wholly,  and  his  arm  never  left  her,  because 
of  the  wounds  in  her  feet.  So  with  many  struggles, 
but  yet  with  a  heart  that  could  not  fail  him  (so  full 
it  was),  to  give  a  brave  word  or  helping  arm  to  her 
whose  spirit  seemed  dead,  he  brought  her  to  the 
river-girt  city  of  Nantoil,  to  his  mother's  house. 

There  he  encompassed  her  with  every  sweet  ob- 
servance the  heart  of  young  lover  could  devise ;  and 
there,  while  he  humbled  himself  in  her  service,  she 

20 


Cbc   Bcart's   Key 

won  back  all  her  old  spirit,  and  a  cruel  beauty  like 
the  flame  of  a  forest  fire.  But  the  more  spirit  was 
in  her,  the  less  he  dared  to  woo  her.  It  was  not 
that  she  held  him  off  too  much,  but  that  he  dared 
her  too  little.  You  know  whether  he  had  a  faint 
heart  or  not;  yet  I  will  tell  you  this.  Take  a  bold 
way  with  a  lady:  if  you  love  her,  show  little  of  it. 
If  she  scorn  you,  it  may  be  bettered;  if  she  pity 
you,  never  in  this  world.  Now,  Saill  had  scorned 
enough  lovers,  but  never  yet  had  she  been  moved 
to  pity  one.  But  when  Guillem  dared  not  kiss  her 
cheek  at  the  Good-night,  nor  again  the  side  of  her 
mouth  as  in  that  hour  of  bitterness  he  had  found 
means  to  do,  he  lost  what  he  had  achieved  in  the 
discovery  of  what  he  could  not  now  achieve;  she 
thought  of  him  again  as  a  foot-boy.  And  as  for  the 
lad's  mother,  Madam  Bruna,  up  in  arms  for  her 
son,  when  she  rated  her,  Saill  said,  "Dear  Madam, 
I  am  here  safe-caught.  He  has  but  to  take  me,  I 
suppose.  Arms  he  has,  and  a  mouth,  I  know,  but 
I  cannot  open  them  for  him."  To  herself  she 
thought,  "I  am  in  a  cage  with  these  bird-catchers. 
Heaven  pity  the  poor!"  In  these  days,  as  the  win- 
ter wore,  Guillem  longed,  and  Saill  fasted,  and 
Madam  Bruna  looked  for  a  stick. 

Before  long  she  found  one,  good  soul!  The  war 
shifted  from  one  valley  to  another  like  a  heavy  cloud. 
Simon  of  Montfort  laid  siege  to  Nantoil  and  held  a 
close  leaguer.  Guillem  went  to  keep  the  walls,  Madam 
Bruna  changed  her  manner,  and  Saill  felt  the  whip. 

21 


Tend   Jldt^enturcs 

Hunger  came  in,  as  bitter  ally  of  the  cold  and 
Count  Simon.  Food  in  Nantoil  ran  up  to  famine 
price.  Servants  had  mouths,  but  masters  no  bread; 
Madam  Bruna  packed  hers  out-of-doors.  "Get 
you  into  the  kitchen,  my  giri,"  she  said  to  Saill.  "  I 
cannot  keep  you  idle  when,  as  God  knows,  I  am 
hard  shifted  to  keep  you  at  all."  So  Saill  went 
into  the  kitchen,  and  Guillem  saw  nothing  of  her; 
for  she  was  ashamed  that  he  should  see  her  in  a 
kitchen  plight,  and  prevailed  upon  his  mother  to 
give  her  out  as  ill  in  bed.  "Have  it  as  you  will," 
said  the  harassed  woman,  "lies  are  cheaper  than 
bread."  The  lie  was  told,  and  Guillem  made  mis- 
erable, but  there  was  worse  to  come. 

That  day  was  soon  at  hand  when  food  there  was 
none,  nor  money  to  buy  it.  Saill  was  shivering  in 
the  kitchen  over  the  dying  ashes  of  a  fire  long  spent, 
when  Madam  Bruna  came  in,  gray  with  hunger 
and  the  waspish  rage  of  hunger.  "Get  you  out, 
girl,"  she  said,  hatred  shaking  in  her  voice,  "get  you 
out  into  the  city  this  night  and  win  us  bread.  Are 
we  to  starve,  I  and  my  son,  and  the  fault  be  yours  ? 
Is  this  how  you  make  amends?     Out  with  you." 

"How  shall  I  get  you  any  money,  dear  Madam?" 
asked  the  Proud  Lady,  proud  no  longer,  but  trem- 
bling at  the  look  of  affairs. 

Madam  Bruna  looked  her  up  and  down.  "  Hey," 
she  laughed  savagely,  "are  you  so  nice?  Sell  you 
now  your  Heart's  Key,  fool,  and  my  son  and  I  shall 
be  fed." 

22 


tftc   Bcart's   K«V 

Said  Saill,  bowing  her  head  down  very  low,  "  Mad- 
am, for  your  son  I  will  do  it."  She  went  away 
by  herself,  and  took  the  Heart's  Key,  and  broke 
off  a  square  link  of  it.  This  she  sold  to  a  Jew 
for  a  price,  and,  after  the  proper  time,  came  back 
with  the  money  to  Madam  Bruna.  The  famished 
wretch  snapped  at  it,  but  said  nothing  of  question 
or  comment.  She  made  herself  and  Guillem  a  good 
supper. 

Saill  had  what  scraps  she  could  find  over,  but 
was  so  hungry  that  they  were  nothing  to  her. 
She  came  at  last  to  lick  the  dishes  in  the  kitchen 
and  to  drink  the  liquor  in  which  she  had  washed 
them.  At  supper  Guillem  had  said,  "Mother, 
here  is  better  food  than  ever  I  tasted  this  many 
days.  The  best  of  it,  as  is  fitting,  should  have 
been  given  to  Lady  Saill,  who  hath  always  fared 
deliciously." 

"Trust  me,  my  son,  and  so  she  has,"  said  his 
mother,  and  Guillem  believed  her.  But,  following 
his  habit,  before  he  went  out  to  the  walls  he  crept 
to  her  door  and  scratched  at  it,  whispering,  "Lady, 
is  all  well?"  Saill  whispered  back,  as  she  always 
did,  "I  am  well,  Guillem."  But  not  for  all  the 
world  would  she  open  to  him,  lest  he  should  see 
her  as  she  was,  or  get  news  of  the  Heart's  Key. 

But  starvation  had  the  longer  wind.  When 
the  great  girdle  was  all  gone,  link  by  link,  she 
knew  that  she  had  no  more  to  give  but  life  itself. 
That  night  Simon  Montfort's  men  made  a  breach 

2Z 


Toita   jfldpcnturcs 

in  the  wall  through  which,  like  a  murderous  flood, 
they  streamed  into  Nantoil.  The  kennels  ran 
smoking  red — fire,  rapine,  lust,  and  rage  stalked 
naked  through  the  streets.  In  Madam  Bruna's 
house  was  nothing  to  eat. 

"Girl,"  she  said  to  Saill,  "go  out  and  sell.  This 
is  the  night  of  all  others  for  you." 

"Alack,  mother,"  said  Saill,  "I  have  nothing  to 
sell.     All  is  gone." 

"Pish,"  said  the  other;  "beg  then;  get  what 
you  can.  Steal,  sin,  snatch!  Give  my  son  food." 
She  drove  her  from  the  house. 

Saill  stood  cowering  in  the  street,  pondering 
how  to-night  she  could  die.  Then  there  came  to 
her  mind  the  thought  of  Guillem  fighting  for  her 
life,  who  had  saved  her  once  and  loved  her  always. 
"He  has  neither  art  nor  part  in  this.  No,  no,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "that  is  not  the  way  to  reward  good 
lovers."  So  she  went  slippering  down  the  street 
like  a  beggar  girl,  as  indeed  she* was,  among  gaping 
houses  and  dead  men's  bodies,  and  pale  rags  which 
had  once  been  women,  half  sodden  now  in  the 
gutters. 

"That  is  where  I  shall  lie  when  they  have  done 
with  me,"  she  thought;  and  just  then  heard  a 
horse's  hoofs  ring  like  steel  on  steel,  and  saw  one 
come  riding  on  a  white  charger,  and  knew  she 
must  adventure  him.  He  was  a  knight  in  a  golden 
cloak,  who  reined  up  under  a  pious  lamp,  and 
looked  all  ways  to  find  his  own.     Shivering,  Saill 

24 


tbc  heart's   Key 

gathered  her  rags  about  her  neck,  and  went  to  lay- 
hold  of  his  stirrup. 

"  How  now,  my  girl  ?"  said  Sir  JaufTrai  de  Brieuc — 
for  it  was  he.  She  looked  up  and  spoke  to  him, 
sickened  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  asking  him 
alms,  for  the  love  of  Mary.  He,  when  he  under- 
stood her,  scoffed  aloud.  ''Off  with  you,  wagtail, 
unhand  me,  go  your  ways.  Montfort  is  in,  and 
you  are  out.  I  have  nothing  for  you.  I  am  a  lover 
of  ladies,  I!" 

He  spurred  his  horse  till  he  plunged  in  the  kennel, 
and  sent  the  mud  spattering  about.  And  so  he 
rode  his  way,  looking  to  the  upper  windows  for 
ladies. 

After  that,  and  after  much  more  deadly  skirting 
of  peril  (wherein  that  little  which  she  had  left  stood 
to  be  rifled  at  ease),  she  saw  the  Viscount  Ebles 
stand  in  the  Cathedral  Square,  very  noble,  in  red 
armor,  with  a  gold  crest  to  his  helm  and  white 
cloak  over  his  shoulder.  He  was  a  Knight  of 
the  Temple,  you  must  know.  To  him  she  went, 
creeping  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  and  faltered  her 
petition.  But  he  turned,  cursing  and  railing,  and 
bade  her  be  off,  or  he  would  send  half  a  dozen  of 
his  men  on  her  heels.  "Look  you.  Mischief,"  says 
he,  "I  have  forsworn  women  since  one  most  in- 
juriously used  me.  Judge  you,  little  misery,  how 
this  was,  and  learn  if  it  is  not  too  late."  So 
he  told  her  the  whole  story  of  herself  with  those 
three  lords  in  the  orchard.     Saill  hid  her  face  in  her 

3  25 


Tend   Jld^entures 

arm,  and,  leaning  against  the  church  wall,  cried 
bitterly,  as  if  her  heart  was  broken,  as  all  her 
spirit  was.     The  Viscount  resumed  his  meditations. 

Now  Guillem,  at  the  entry  of  Montfort's  men, 
ran  quaking  by  the  lanes  and  alleys  of  Nantoil 
to  his  mother's  house,  to  save,  if  he  might,  all  he 
loved  in  it.  "Quick,  mother,  we  must  look  to 
ourselves,"  he  told  her.  "Simon  Montfort  is  in — 
we  shall  be  dead  or  worse.  Tell  me,  where  is  Lady 
Saill  ?     There  is  no  time  to  lose!" 

"Ah,  misery  and  plague  be  on  her,"  cried  the 
old  woman,  despising  whom  she  had  used  despite- 
fully;  "where  would  she  be  but  abroad?" 

Guillem  turned  white.  "What  is  this?  Where 
is  she,  then?  On  such  a  night!"  Madam  Bruna 
showed  herself  at  last. 

"Ah,  tell  me  now,  Guillem,  where  else  should 
she  be?  She  is  out  and  about  selling  the  Heart's 
Key,  and  so  hath  been  this  month  of  dark  days. 
How  should  the  house  have  stood  or  you  been  fed 
but  for  that?" 

Guillem  rebuked  his  mother.  "Peace,  woman, 
you  make  me  ashamed,"  he  said.  "You  should  be 
thankful  for  the  bread  she  gave  you,  and  honor 
her  who  puts  you  above  honor.  Heaven  send  you 
mercy;  I  must  find  her." 

He  turned  and  hunted  among  the  dead  and 
dying  in  the  streets.  Friend  or  foe,  dying  or 
killing,  he  asked  them  all — "Tell  me  of  my  Lady 
Saill,  for  the  love  of  Jesus."     He  asked  Jauffrai  de 

26 


Brieuc,  he  asked  Ebles;  neither  knew  him;  but 
Jauffrai  drove  him  into  the  kennel,  and  Ebles 
kicked  him  away.  So  at  last,  at  a  corner  of  the 
great  square,  he  saw  the  desolate  figure  of  a  woman, 
who  leaned,  crying,  by  the  church  wall,  blown  upon 
by  the  night  wind,  the  screaming  of  the  sacked  city, 
and  all  the  reproaches  of  the  night.  His  heart 
gave  a  leap,  his  feet  followed:  he  came  to  her  hold- 
ing out  his  arms,  kneeling,  crying  out:  *'0  my 
heart!  O  Proud  Lady!  O  Saill,  whom  I  love  so 
dearly,  how  is  it  with  thee?"  She  turned  and 
gave  a  sob,  and  fell  into  the  shelter  he  opened, 

A  party  of  soldiers  came  panting  by,  hunting 
the  houses,  like  a  pack  of  hounds,  for  women  and 
liquor.  Guillem  drew  her  deep  into  an  archway, 
and  crouched  with  her  there  till  they  had  passed. 
Then  from  entry  to  entry  they  crept,  a  furtive, 
fearful  way,  to  the  gate.  Saill  was  as  wax  in  his 
hands,  following  when  he  bid  her,  clinging  to  him 
while  they  waited,  and  when  they  ran  never  loosing 
his  hand;  but  she  was  voiceless,  neither  defending 
herself  nor  accusing,  neither  pra^^ing  his  forgive- 
ness nor  justif^ang  his  faith.  He,  who  was  her 
hope,  must  now  become  her  judge  as  well.  So 
they  crawled  out  of  the  fire  and  smoke  of  sacked 
N  ant  oil. 

Early  in  the  morning  they  took  the  road  to- 
gether in  peace:  a  battered  soldier  and  his  drab — 
who  should  hurt  them  ?  The  sun  rose  over  the 
hill,  the  light  smiled  upon  their  soiled  faces,  they 

27 


Tona   J1dpcnture$ 

went  along  the  valley  hand-in-hand.  But  Saill  never 
spoke,  for  she  dared  not  woo  her  judge;  and  Guillem 
never  spoke,  for  he  dared  not  risk  his  treasure. 

The  primroses  were  out  in  the  banks,  in  the 
meadows  cowslips  nodded  their  heads,  jonquils  and 
lady-smocks.  The  spring  was  in,  earth  quick  with 
it.  They  came  to  a  little  wood  which  crowned  a 
grassy  field,  and  there  they  rested  on  the  young  moss 
by  a  fountain,  while  they  ate  what  bread  they  had. 
Overhead,  a  pair  of  wood-doves  by  a  new  nest 
sang  to  each  other.  Nantoil  was  burning  that 
day,  but  in  the  wood  in  the  valley  the  doves  sang 
clear  and  long.  Saill  put  off  her  slippers  and 
cooled  her  feet  in  the  water ;  she  let  down  the  golden 
race  of  her  hair  and  threw  her  head  back  to  shake  it 
free.  As  Guillem  saw  that  proud  fine  face  fronting, 
unashamed,  the  sky,  his  love  leaped  hotly  in  him, 
rebuking  him  for  his  doubt.  He  prayed  his  old 
prayer,  "Hey,  Madame  the  Virgin  of  Ventadorn, 
give  me  the  Heart's  Key!" 

Prayer  touched  him,  moved  him  to  courage. 
His  arm  was  about  Saill,  his  hand  pressed  her  heart. 
She  turned  with  a  face  all  aflame;  but  he  saw  fear 
in  her  eyes.  That  she  should  fear  what  he  might 
do  whipped  him  like  a  rod;  then  he,  too,  knew  a 
fear  at  which  his  lips  went  dry. 

"Alas,  alas!"  he  whispered,  "O  Saill,  the  Heart's 
Key  is  gone!" 

She  blushed  a  deeper  red;  but  her  eyes  grew 
dewy  with  something  softer  than  alarm. 

28 


^    Cbc  heart's  Key 

"But  not  the  heart,  dear  Guillem,"  she  said, 
"not  the  heart,  O  my  love!" 

He  saw  how  lovely  she  was,  all  a  burning  color, 
nor  did  he  take  away  his  hand.  "Now,"  said  he, 
"tell  me  all  the  truth."  So  she  told  him  every- 
thing from  the  beginning  of  their  days  at  Nantoil, 
and  so  he  learned  the  holiness  and  generous  pride 
of  her  whose  pride  had  once  been  niggard.  Guillem 
thanked  God.  "Now  kiss  me,"  he  said  then,  "for 
proud  as  you  are,  I  am  prouder  still.  You  have 
turned  the  Heart's  Key  for  me,  dear  love;  now 
give  me  thy  red  heart  to  keep.'* 

The  Monk  of  Quesle,  with  a  singing  company, 
passed  down  the  road  on  the  way  to  a  Court  of 
Love.  In  the  midst  was  a  lady  in  a  litter.  The 
Monk  was  dressed  in  a  bright  green  silken  tunic 
covered  with  white  leopards;  on  his  head  was  a 
cap  of  scarlet;  his  white  horse  was  trapped  in  the 
same  hue.  He  sang  to  the  curtains  of  the  litter 
and  to  a  fine  hand  which  held  them  a  little  way 
open.  Guillem  and  the  Proud  Lady  let  him  sing. 
For  them  the  wood-birds  had  a  more  tuneful  note. 


Brazenbeaa  tbe  Great 


Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  have  no  taste  for  prefaces. 
A  story  is  a  story,  or  verbiage.  Yet  it  is  to  he  remem- 
bered by  a  writer  that  the  public  has  its  feelings  no 
less  than  he;  and  if  it  have  met  with  certain  person- 
ages before,  likes  to  be  reminded  of  tJte  occasion.  Now 
tJie  actors  in  the  following  few  pages  have  all  had  a 
hearing,  for  they  are  the  tellers  of  some  "New  Canter- 
bury Tales,"  to  which  tJie  public  was  pleased  to  listen 
not  so  long  ago,  little  thinking  that  those  speakers  (as 
they  jogged  along  the  foot  -  pathways  through  Hants 
and  Surrey  and  Kent)  had  hopes  and  passions  and 
troubles  of  their  own  over  and  above  those  which  they 
pretended.     They  had  though :  theirs  was  no  peaceful 

pilgrimage.     It  began  with  and  ended  in  ; 

but  let  the  reader  judge  for  himself. 


Brazenbead  tbe  Oreat 


I.  How  Captain  Brazexhead  won  a  Recruit 

PILGRIMAGE  to  Canterbun-  and  Saint  Thomas 
of  Cante^bun^  which  is  in  some  a  piety,  in 
some  a  courteous  act,  for  some  salvation,  for  some  a 
frolic,  in  others  may  ver\'  well  be  the  covering  of 
statecraft,  of  policy,  of  deep  design.  So  it  was  with 
Captain  Salomon  Brazenhead  in  the  month  of  May 
and  year  of  our  Lord  God  fourteen  hundred  and 
fifty.  With  him,  "late  of  Burgundy,  formerly  of 
Milan" — a  lean  man  of  six  feet  two  inches,  of  in- 
ordinate thirst,  of  two  scars  on  his  face,  a  notched 
forefinger,  a  majestic  nose,  of  a  long  sword,  two 
daggers,  and  a  stolen  horse,  of  experience  in  divers 
kinds  of  villany,  yet  of  simple  tastes  —  with  this 
free  routier,  I  allow,  pilgrimage  was  certainly  a 
cloak  of  dissembling,  while  none  the  less  a  congenial 
and  (as  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  admit) 
wholesome  exercise.  If  he  had  served  too  long  in 
Italy  not  to  love  conspiracy,  he  had  not  been  to 
Compostella  and  Jerusalem  for  nothing.  Indeed, 
he  had  skirted  in  his  time  too  close  to  the  rocks  of 

33 


Death  not  to  respect  those  who  (for  honorable  rea- 
sons)  had  cast  themselves  upon  them.     Therefore 
he  was  by  no  means  without  devotion  in  seeking  the 
Head  of  Thomas  and  the  Golden  Shrine,  for  all  that 
he  had  business,   and  high  business,  on  the  road. 
For  firstly,  in  this  reign  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  he 
was  a  Duke  of  York's  man,  a  White  Rose  man. 
Secondly,  he  was  one  of  those  who  had  sworn  to 
have  Jack  Nape's  head  on  a  charger.^     Lastly,  he 
was  bosom  friend  of  another  Jack,  whom  he  hoped 
to   meet   in    Kent;    I   mean   Jack   Mend-all,    Jack 
Cade,  Jack  Mortimer — call  him  as  you  will — that 
promising   young   man,    who   promised   himself    a 
kingdom  and  Englishmen  a  charter,  who  actually 
fought  a  battle  on  Blackheath,  held  London  Bridge 
against   the   Mayor,   Aldermen,    and   Citizens,    and 
hanged  Lord  Say  upon  one  of  his  own  trees.     From 
this  practical  statesman  our  Captain  had  received 
a  roving  commission  to  be  his  Vox  Clamantis:  he 
was  to  trumpet  revolution  along  the  Pilgrims'  Way. 
This  road  was  the  most  travelled  in  the  realm;  it 
led   all   men  into   Kent — Captain    Cade's   country; 
it    could    be    safely    used:    with    cockle-shells    and 
staves  enough   it   could  screen  an  army.     Pilgrim 
only  by  the  way,  therefore,  was  Captain  Salomon 
Brazenhead,  sometime  of  Milan,  late  of  Burgundy, 
now  Deputy-Constable  of  all  England  under  Letters 
Patent  of  the  Captain  of  Kent. 

'  Jack  Nape  was  Delapole,  Duke  of  Suffolk,  the  best-hated 
man  of  his  day,  and  no  worse  served  than  he  deserved. 

34 


Brdzcnbead   tbe   Great 

I  have  spoken  of  his  leanness,  of  his  inches,  of 
his  thirst.  It  must  be  added  of  him  that  he  was 
plentifully  forested  with  hair,  which  drooped  like 
ivy  from  the  pent  of  his  brows,  leaped  fiercely  up 
from  his  lip  to  meet  the  falling  tide;  gave  him  a 
forked  beard;  crept  upward  from  his  chest  to  the 
light  at  his  throat;  had  invaded  his  very  ears,  and 
made  his  nostrils  good  cover  for  dormice  in  the 
winter.  I  might  sing  of  this,  or  of  his  eloquent 
eyes:  I  prefer  a  paean  on  his  nose.  Captain  Brazen- 
head  had  a  nose — but  an  heroic  nose,  a  trumpet,  an 
ensign  built  on  imperial  lines;  broad-rooted,  full 
of  gristle,  ridged  with  sharp  bone,  abounding  in 
callus,  tapering  exquisitely  to  a  point,  very  flexible 
and  quick.  With  this  weapon  of  offence  or  defi- 
ance he  could  sneer  you  from  manhood's  portly 
presence  to  a  line  of  shame,  with  it  comb  his  mus- 
tachios.  When  he  was  deferential  it  kissed  his  lip; 
combative,  it  cocked  his  hat.  It  was  a  nose  one 
could  pat  with  some  pretence;  scratched,  it  was  set 
on  fire,  you  could  see  it  smouldering  in  the  dusk. 
Into  the  vexed  debate,  whether  great  noses  are  in- 
variable with  great  men,  I  shall  not  enter.  Captain 
Brazenhead  was  great,  and  he  had  a  great  nose;  let 
this  instance  go  to  swell  the  argument.  This  fine, 
tall,  hairy  man  rode  directly  to  Winchester  from 
Southampton,  his  port  of  debarkation,  entered  the 
city  by  the  West  Gate,  and  stabled  his  horse  at  the 
George,  which  was  then  the  principal  inn.  This 
done,  he  sent  the  hostler  for  a  gallon  of  beer,  and  in 

35 


Tona   jFiapcnturcs 

his  absence  inspected  with  great  care  all  the  animals 
tethered  in  the  yard.  It  was  his  intention  to  make 
sure  of  a  good  one  for  the  morrow,  seeing  that  his 
own — if  a  spavined  makeshift  levied  from  an  East- 
leigh  smithy  can  so  be  called — did  not  please  him 
at  all.  He  chose  a  handsome,  round-barrelled 
roan,  rising  not  more  than  seven,  and  did  not 
trouble  to  change  the  furniture  further  than  to 
add  his  pack  to  those  already  on  the  saddle.  He 
was  then  quite  ready  to  drink  his  liquor  turn  and 
turn  about  with  the  hostler  and  two  Gray  Friars 
whom  he  found  in  a  sunny  corner — for  the  Cap- 
tain was  a  large-hearted  man.  He  captivated 
whatever  company  he  happened  to  be  in;  this  was 
his  weakness,  and  he  knew  it.  So  now,  with 
scarcely  a  word  said,  he  persuaded  those  two 
friars  that  they  had  not  seen  what  they  had  watched 
with  some  interest  a  few  minutes  before:  he  con- 
vinced the  hostler  that  the  horse  he  now  saw  and 
admired  was  the  very  horse  he  had  despised  when 
it  came  stiffly  into  the  yard.  Admirable  man!  he 
set  his  steel  bonnet  at  a  rake  over  one  eye,  chewed 
a  straw,  and  cocked  his  sword  point  to  the  angle 
of  a  wren's  tail.  These  things  nicely  adjusted,  his 
mind  at  ease,  full  of  the  adventurous  sense  of  strange 
airs  and  hidden  surprises  waiting  for  him  behind 
strange  walls,  he  walked  abroad  into  Chepe,  in- 
tending to  pay  his  devotions  to  the  Shrine  of  Saint 
Swithin,  that  (by  these  means)  a  good  ending 
might  follow  so  good  a  beginning;  for,  as  he  had 

36 


Brazcnbcdd   tbe   Great 

said  more  than  once,  honor  is  due  to  a  dead  gen- 
tleman from  Hving  gentlemen.  "If  I  go,"  he 
would  protest,  "into  such  an  one's  good  town  and 
bend  not  my  knee  in  his  audience-chamber,  I 
shame  my  nobility  by  flouting  his.  So  it  is  pre- 
cisely when  I  visit  a  Cathedral  city,  whereover  is 
set  enshrined  some  ancient  deceased  man  of  God. 
That  worthy  wears  a  crown  in  Heaven  which  it 
becomes  me  to  acknowledge  whiles  I  am  yet  upon 
the  earth.     And  so  I  do,  by  cock!" 

With  these  and  other  like  reflections  he  passed 
by  the  Pilgrims'  Gate,  where  the  meaner  sort  of 
worshippers — pitiful,  broken  knaves,  ambush  men, 
sheep-stealers,  old  battered  soldiers,  witches,  torn 
wives  and  drabs — stand  at  the  shining  bars,  their 
hands  thrust  in  towards  the  Golden  Feretor}^  and 
whine  their  petitions  to  the  good  saint's  dust;  and 
entered  by  the  west  door,  with  much  ceremony  of 
bowing  and  dropping  to  the  knee,  and  a  very 
courtly  sharing  of  his  finger-load  of  holy  water 
with  a  burgess's  wife,  who  was  quite  as  handsome 
as  one  of  her  condition  had  need  to  be.  Within 
the  church  he  paused  to  look  about  him,  but  not  to 
admire  the  shrine,  the  fine  painting,  the  gold  work 
and  lamp  work  with  which  it  abounded.  He  knew 
churches  well  enough:  business  was  business,  that 
of  Master  Mortimer  crv4ng  business,  that  of  Captain 
Brazenhead  fisherman's  business.  Rather,  he  cast  a 
shrewd  eye  at  the  haunters  of  the  nave,  passing  over 
the  women,  the  apprentices,  all  the  friars.     He  saw 

37 


Tend  JIdoeittures 

three  or  four  likely  blades  playing  with  a  dice-box 
in  a  corner,  and  gained  one  of  them  by  a  lucky 
throw.  He  picked  up  a  Breton  pedler  at  his 
prayers,  also  a  shipman  from  Goole,  who  had  been 
twice  hanged  for  piracy  and  twice  cut  down  alive 
— "Three's  the  number  for  you,  lucky  Tom,"  he 
told  him  by  way  of  encouragement.  In  the  Chapel 
of  the  Sepulchre  he  found  an  old  friend,  Stephen 
Blackbush,  of  Aldermary-Church,  now  in  hiding 
for  coin-clipping,  claimed  him,  insisted  on  having 
him,  and  got  his  way.  All  this  was  very  well 
indeed,  yet  the  Captain  sighed  for  more.  "I  have 
here  so  much  mass,"  he  told  himself,  "so  much 
brawn;  now  Mortimer  needs  brain.  This  rascaille 
would  as  lieve  be  under  the  bed  as  in  it  any  day, 
and  not  one  of  it  worth  a  pinch  of  salt  to  the  pud- 
ding we  have  in  the  pot.  Give  me  a  stripling  of  wit, 
kind  Heaven,  to  outbalance  all  this  dead  meat." 
Scanning  the  company  as  he  turned  over  these  re- 
flections and  framed  these  prayers,  he  came  plump 
upon  the  very  thing — came,  saw,  conquered,  as  you 
are  to  learn. 

This  was  a  slim,  tall,  gracefully  made  youth, 
very  pretty,  who  in  a  pale  oval  face  had  a  pair  of 
hot,  small,  greenish  eyes,  a  long  nose,  a  little  mouth 
like  a  rose-bud,  and  a  sharp  chin  dimpled;  who  wore 
his  brown  hair  smooth  and  cropped  short,  and  had 
the  shape  and  tender  look  of  the  God's  self  of  love, 
as  you  or  I  might  have  seen  the  boy.  This  young 
man,  whose  name  was  Percival  Perceforest,  was  a 

38 


Brazcnbcad   tbe   great 

scholar  in  his  way,  well  versed  in  the  books  of  Ovid, 
the  De  Remedio  and  other  like  works;  knowing  a 
great  part  of  the  Romaunt  de  la  Rose  by  rote,  and 
also  the  Songs  of  Horace.  These  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  cite  colloquially,  as  a  priest  his  psalter. 
He  would  speak  of  the  Vitas  hinniileo,  the  Integer 
vitae,  or  the  Solvitur,  where  the  clerk  would  have  his 
In  Exitu  Israel  or  Notiis  in  Judaea.  Not  that  he 
had  not  these  also  as  pat  upon  the  tongue:  after- 
wards it  came  out  that,  bred  for  the  Church,  he  was 
actually  in  minor  orders.  Now,  with  all  these  ad- 
vantages of  person  and  training,  it  is  a  very  strange 
thing  that  he  should  have  been  found  by  Captain 
Brazenhead  leaning  against  a  pillar  of  the  nave, 
crying  upon  the  cuff  of  his  jacket.  Yet  it  was  so. 
Round  about  him  stood  unwholesome,  too-ready 
sympathizers,  women  of  the  town,  harpies;  hard- 
favored,  straddling,  bold-browed  hussies,  whose 
gain  is  our  loss.  A  short-faced,  plainish  man  stood 
there  too,  respectably  dressed,  who  tried  to  cope, 
but  failed  to  cope,  with  two  things  at  once.  To  the 
women  he  was  heard  to  say,  "Begone,  shameless 
baggages,  tempt  not  the  afflicted";  which  made 
them  laugh  and  hit  each  other  in  their  mirth.  The 
weeper  he  urged  with  a  "God  help  thee,  youth,  and 
expound  thy  misfortunes  to  me  if  thou  canst  not!" 
But  the  name  of  God  caused  the  young  man  to 
blubber  the  more.  Captain  Brazenhead  took  a 
shorter  way.  He  smartly  touched  his  man  on  the 
shoulder,    calling   him   his   bawcock,    his   nip    and 

39 


Tend   Jldocntures 

frizzle,  his  eye  and  his  minion;  at  the  women  he 
flung  up  his  hands  with  a  rush,  as  one  starts  a  grey- 
hound. "Off,  detriments!"  he  cried  tremendously; 
and  they  slunk  or  swaggered  away  with  very  in- 
jurious but  muttered  expressions  to  the  effect  that 
they  were  not  going  to  do  for  such  an  old  piece  what 
the}^  actually  were  doing  as  they  spoke.  "Now, 
good  Master  Burgess,"  said  the  Captain  to  the  re- 
spectable man  (whom  he  had  placed  at  once),  "and 
now,  young  Niobus,"  to  the  lad,  "we  will  accom- 
modate these  water-works,  if  it  suit  you.  Follow 
me."  He  laid  a  hacked  finger  to  his  nose,  and  scowl- 
ed upon  the  couple  with  so  much  hopeful  mystery, 
such  commanding  confidence,  such  an  air  of  give- 
and-take-and-be-damned,  that  follow  him  they  did; 
the  merchant  as  one  w^ho  says,  "Well,  well,  since 
your  humor  is  so,"  and  the  other  with  subdued 
sniffs.  But  the  merchant,  as  having  a  solid  founda- 
tion upon  this  earth,  trampled  stoutly,  with  a 
smack  of  the  shoes  upon  the  pavement,  while 
Percival  Perceforest  went  a-tiptoe.  It  is  proper  to 
add  that  this  latter  was  dressed  in  a  tight  jerkin 
of  green  velvet,  rather  soiled,  frayed  at  the  edges, 
wanting  a  button  or  two  at  the  bosom;  that  he 
wore  scarlet  stockings,  darned  in  places  and  not 
darned  in  other  places;  that  his  shoes  were  down 
at  heel,  the  feather  in  his  red  cap  broken-backed; 
that  he  looked  rumpled  but  innocent,  unfortunate 
rather  than  debauched,  as  if  he  had  slept  out  for  a 
night  or  two — which  was  precisely  the  fact. 

40 


Brazenbeaa   tbe   great 

The  Captain,  deep  in  the  dehghts  of  mystery, 
conducted  his  initiates  to  the  stone  ledge  which  ran 
along  the  new  chantrv^  of  Bishop  Wykeham.  Here 
he  sat  down,  and  courteously  invited  the  merchant 
to  a  place  at  his  right  hand.  This  being  declined 
with  a  "Sir,  I  thank  you,"— "Two  feet  forever!" 
said  the  Captain  heartily,  and  nodded  Percival 
Perceforest  to  the  place  at  his  left  hand.  Percival 
meekly  took  it.  "Pretty  lamb!"  said  this  fatherly 
Captain,  and  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Undoubtedly  Captain  Brazenhead  had  a  notable 
manner;  endearment  and  command  coincided  in 
his  tones;  he  seemed  to  be  pursuing  his  own  gen- 
erous way  when  really  he  was  hunting  yours.  He 
succeeded  with  Percival  to  the  point  of  marvel. 

"Name,  my  suckling?"  he  asks,  and  is  answered, 
"Percival  Perceforest,  sir." 

"Could  not  be  better,  indeed.  Your  age,  Per- 
cival?" 

"Of  nineteen  years,  sir."  The  Captain  smacked 
his  leg. 

"I  knew  it;  I  was  certain  of  it!"  he  cried  with 
delight,  then  sobered  in  a  moment  to  ask: 

"Now  have  you,  Percival,  in  all  your  nineteen 
years  of  travail  in  this  old  round,  ever  let  so  much 
water  from  your  eyes  as  on  this  day?" 

"No,  no,  indeed,  sir.  There  has  been  no  such 
occasion,"  says  Percival,  and  breaks  out  sobbing  like 
a  drawpipe.  The  Captain  thumped  him  on  the 
back.     "No  more  o'  this.     Back  to  your  kennel, 

4  41 


tears!  Down,  ramping  waters,  waste  my  cheeks 
no  more!  Madness  of  moons — "  Percival  thought 
it  right  to  explain.  He  looked  up  with  all  the  proper 
pride  of  grief  in  his  hot  eyes. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  would  have  you  understand,  if 
you  please,  that  I  am  the  most  wretched  young 
man  in  all  England." 

"Stuff!"  says  the  merchant  testily;  "windy  talk!" 

"By  cock,  not  at  all,"  broke  in  the  Captain,  "but 
sound  and  biting  truth,  as  I  can  tell.  I  know 
something  of  wretchedness,  let  me  assure  you, 
Scrivener" — the  merchant  started — "ah,  and  of 
English  wretchedness  too,  since  I  myself  have  seen 
the  top  of  a  handsome  nobleman  lying  two  yards 
away  from  his  trunk,  and  his  pious  lady  pondering 
which  morsel  she  should  first  embrace — a  pitiful 
sight,  I  hope.  And  in  Lombardy,  you  must  know, 
they  sow  the  fields  with  men's  head-pieces,  and 
thereby  breed  dragons,  as  Cadman  also  did  in  the 
tillage  and  common  fields  about  Thebes.  Sir,  sir, 
this  lad  is  in  an  agony,  if  I  have  ever  known  agony. 
Now,  I  will  lay  a  thousand  marks  to  your  ink- 
bottle  that  I  can  place  a  finger  on  the  nut  of  his 
grief."  The  Captain  spoke  so  heatedly  that  Percival 
was  minded  to  soothe  him. 

"It  is  too  deep-rooted,  dear  sir,"  he  said. 

"I  prick  deep,"  replied  the  Captain,  and  raised  a 
finger.  "Now  mark  me,  boy.  You,  in  the  first 
delicious  flush  of  manly  love,  have  been  torn  from 
your  bosom's  queen." 

42 


Brazcnbcdd   the   6rcdt 

"Oh,  sir!"  says  Percival,  gasping, 

"And  she  is  of  high  degree." 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"And  she  is  here  in  this  city  of  Winton — and 
you  have  tramped  in  her  steps — and  slept  under 
hedges,  and  in  the  skirts  of  brakes — and  seen  her 
— and  by  her  been  seen — and  yet  you  cannot  get 
at  her — hey?" 

"Oh,  sir!"  cries  Percival,  showing  the  whites  of 
his  eyes,  "oh,  sir,  what  magic  do  you  use?"  The 
Captain  held  out  his  hand  for  the  other  to  kiss. 

"My  magic  is  the  magic  of  that  glowing  old 
puddle  of  blood,  my  heart,"  says  this  triumphant 
man.  "What  difficulty  had  I?  What  does  youth 
cry  for?  Why,  youth  again.  But  you  tell  me 
much  more  than  such  a,  b,  c.  Your  jacket"  (he 
fingered  the  sleeve)  "was  good  Genoa  velvet  once; 
and  is  not  green  her  liver^^  ?  The  sun  hath  printed 
the  badge  in  your  cap  and  defies  your  busy  fingers ; 
do  you  bear  arms  in  your  own  right  ?"  He  snapped 
his  fingers.  "You  have  played  with  your  master's 
daughter,  page-boy."     Percival  hung  his  head. 

The  Captain  reassured  him.  "Oh,  you  have  not 
gone  too  far.  The  velvet  tells  me  another  tale,  my 
friend.  The  pile  lies  down  along  this  line,  and  this 
line,  and  this  line" — he  drew  his  finger  down  Per- 
cival's  back.  "  I  think  your  master's  staff  has  been 
at  work  here,  therefore  it  was  no  case  for  the  hemp- 
collar.  And  he  sent  you  packing,  I  see.  The  white 
dust   of    Hampshire   cries   from   those   shoes ;   and 

43 


Tond   JIdventurcs 

here,  as  I  live  by  bread,  is  some  Hampshire  hay  to 
tell  me  where  your  bed  was  made  last  night."  He 
piilled  a  long  stalk  from  Percival's  trunks  and  tasted 
it.     "Whitchurch  hay?"  he  asked. 

Percival  replied,  "No,  sir,  Somboum." 

"Ah,"  says  the  Captain,  "I  knew  it  was  grown 
on  the  western  side  of  the  shire.  My  palate  is  out 
of  order.     Where  does  your  master  live,  then?" 

"At  Bemerton,  sir,  in  Wilts." 

"I  know  the  place."  He  considered  it,  gently 
rubbing  his  nose.  "  Good  pasture  lands  about  Avon. 
My  Lord  Moleyns  owns  the  fee;  but  yours  was  not 
his  badge.  Would  it  be — no  ?  Never  old  Touchett 
— Angry  Touchett,  as  we  called  him  in  the  old 
days." 

"Sir  Simon  Touchett  is  his  name,  sir,"  says 
Percival.  The  Captain  snapped  his  fingers  and 
looked  blandly  at  the  merchant. 

"Do  I  prick  deep,  Scrivener?  Now  then,  to  it 
once  more.  Angry  Touchett  hath  a  pretty  daugh- 
ter, hey?" 

"He  hath  four,"  says  Percival.  The  merchant 
sniggered,  and  the  Captain  tapped  his  teeth,  then 
jumped  up  with  a  snort,  pulling  Percival  after  him. 
"Boy,"  he  cried,  venturing  his  all  on  the  main, 
"you  love  the  second  daughter  of  Angry  Touchett." 

He  deserved  to  win.  Percival  opened  his  mouth, 
words  failing  him.  The  merchant  said  "Tush!" 
and  walked  away;  and  Captain  Brazenhead  clasped 
the  youth  in  his  arms.     You  may  be  quite  easy 

44 


BrazenDeaa   tbe   Great 

in  your  mind  as  to  whether  or  no  the  whole  story 
was  poured  out  unreservedly. 

True  it  was,  according  to  his  own  tale,  that 
Percival  Perceforest,  foot-page  to  Sir  Simon  Touch- 
ett,  Knight,  had  loved  his  master's  second  daughter, 
Mistress  Mawdleyn.  Certain  familiarities  growing 
unawares,  and  growing  dearer  by  use;  certain  inno- 
cent natural  testimonies  given  and  received ;  certain 
pledges  scrupulously  observed,  were  followed  by 
certain  unmistakable  tokens.  It  was  all  very  inno- 
cent and  passably  foolish — a  boy-and-girl,  kiss-in- 
the-dark,  dream  o'  nights  affair ;  but  Angry  Touchett 
had  beaten  his  daughter  and  trounced  his  page. 
He  had  packed  the  girl  off  to  her  aunt,  the  Prioress 
of  Ambresbury,  and  Percival  to  the  devil,  whom  he 
conceived  to  be  his  natural  father.  Poor  Percival, 
deplorably  in  earnest  over  his  love-making,  had 
skulked  about  the  shaws  and  osier-brakes  of  Bemer- 
ton,  trudged  to  Ambresbury  over  the  downs,  and 
learned  the  news  there — all  as  much  to  the  detri- 
ment of  his  spirits  as  of  his  trim  adornment.  The 
news  being  that  the  Prioress  would  take  her  niece 
on  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury,  Percival,  too,  felt  the 
call  of  Saint  Thomas:  he  followed,  taking  the  hos- 
pitalities that  offered  on  the  road.  He  saw  the 
entry  of  Mawdleyn  into  Winchester  with  the  Am- 
bresbury retinue;  saw  her  lodged  in  the  stately 
Abbey  of  Hyde  beyond  the  North  Gate.  He  had 
seen  and  been  seen,  and  this  mutual  grief  had  been 
too  many  for  him.     He  had  opened  the  brimming 

45 


Tond    JHdPcniMres 

sluices  of  his  heart;  he  was  tired,  sick,  longing,  foot- 
sore, heartsore,  desperate,  young.  Tears  had  done 
him  good,  but  the  Captain  did  him  more. 

When  he  had  the  whole  stor}^  out,  "Now,"  said 
this  intrepid  man,  "you  and  I,  Percival,  are  in  the 
fair  way  of  a  classic  friendship,  as  I  see  very  well. 
What!  we  have  mingled  tears" — this  was  true; 
"confidences  have  passed" — they  had,  but  all  one 
way;  "we  have  looked  each  into  the  heart  of  the 
other!  You  shall  be  Patrocleus  to  a  new  Achilles, 
Harmodius  to  Aristogiton.  Or  let  me  stand  for 
Theseus,  Duke  of  Athens,  you  shall  be  that  noble- 
man, whose  name  is  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  who 
was  followed  by  his  loving  attentions  to  the  gates 
of  Hell  Town.  Now,  just  as  Achilles  was  kindled 
by  the  sparks  beaten  from  the  heart  of  Patrocleus, 
whom  he  tenderly  loved,  so  shall  I  most  reasonably 
be  by  you,  my  Perceforest.  If  Theseus  went  to 
Hell  after  that  other  gentleman,  I  will  go  to  Bemer- 
ton  if  needs  be.  But  needs  will  not.  Needs  call 
otherwhere.  What  do  you  say  to  a  likely  manor 
in  Kent,  with  the  title  of  Lord  of  Parliament, 
cousin  and  councillor  to  a  great  king  ?  You  have 
a  kingly  name,  for  was  not  a  Perceforest  king  of  all 
England?  Everybody  knows  it.  You  may  carv^e 
out  these  rewards  and  have  your  little  Mawdleyn 
under  your  arm  all  the  while.  Come.  I  see  a  part 
of  the  way,  but  I  am  plaguily  a-thirst  with  all  this 
tongue-work.  Come,  boy,  let  us  drink.  Leave  the 
rest  to  me:  counsel  comes  on  the  flood.     But  let  us 

46 


BrazcttDcaa   iDe   Great 

by  no  means  omit  our  respects  to  the  respectable 
Saint  Swithin,  lord  of  this  place,  though  dead  as  a 
mutton-bone.     Come,  my  gamebird,  bend  the  knee 
with  me." 
II.  Wiles  of  Captain  Brazenhead 

They  bent  the  knee  together,  the  man  of  blood 
and  the  weeper,  ther  rose  up  and  went  out  of  the 
great  church.  As  they  journeyed,  the  Captain 
was  good  enough  to  expound  his  philosophy  of 
saints  and  ladies,  whom  he  classed  together  as 
amiable  emollients  of  our  frail  age,  as  so  much 
ointment,  necessary  to  us  in  early  manhood,  better, 
however,  taken  early,  and  always  in  moderation. 
Nearing  the  inn  he  became  full  of  thought,  and  his 
face  took  on  so  portentous  a  cast  of  brooding  melan- 
choly that  Percival  dared  not  break  in  upon  it. 
The  Captain,  as  the  result  showed,  had  been  think- 
ing partly  of  beer,  for  he  drank  deeply  and  at  once 
of  this  fount  of  solace,  with  both  hands  at  the  flagon. 
Percival  sipped  his  beer  delicately,  without  wetting 
more  than  the  red  of  the  lips ;  his  little  finger  pointed 
to  the  sky  as  he  lifted  his  jug.  This  was  not  lost 
upon  the  Captain,  who  said  to  himself,  "It  is  easy 
to  see  that  you  are  higher  born  than  you  suppose, 
my  lambkin;  so  much  the  better  for  Jack."  But 
when  he  had  again  drunk  copiously,  thrown  down 
the  flagon  for  dogs  to  sniff  at,  and  wrung  out  his 
beard,  mustachios,  and  eyebrows,  regardless  of  his 
birth  he  slapped  his  young  friend  on  the  thigh, 
saying,  "I  have  it,  gamepoult,  I  have  it." 

47 


Tend   Jldi^cntures 

"What  have  you,  sir?"  asks  Percival.  The 
Captain  replied,  "There  is  but  one  thing  to  have 
in  the  world,  since  you  and  I  are  one.  I  have  your 
Mawdleyn  Hke  bird  in  net."  He  shut  his  two 
hands  together  to  shape  a  cage;  one  of  his  thumbs 
was  stuck  up  for  the  inmate.  "She  is  in  there, 
I  tell  you,"  he  averred.      "Do  you  see  her?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Percival. 

"You  are  a  good  lad,"  replied  the  Captain;  "and 
I'll  tell  you  this  for  certain-sure;  you  too  shall  be 
in  there,  billing  on  the  same  perch,  in  three  shakes 
of  a  leg,  if  you  follow  me.  Is  this  to  your  liking?" 
Percival  seized  his  friend's  hand. 

"Oh,  I  will  follow  you  to  the  world's  end,  dear 
sir!"  he  cried  with  fervor;  and  the  Captain,  "You 
shall  follow  me  no  farther  than  Kent  at  this  pres- 
ent. Now  listen,  and  answer  me.  This  Prioress 
of  Ambresbury,  what  favor  hath  she?  Is  she  a 
big  lady,  or  a  little  mincing,  can-I-venture  kind  of 
a  lady  ?  Is  she  of  fine  presence  or  mean  ?  In  a 
word,  doth  she  favor  your  tun  or  your  broomstick  ?" 

"She  is  a  fine  woman,  sir,"  replied  Percival, 
"with  a  most  notable  shape." 

"Aha!"  says  the  Captain,  "I  feel  a  Turk.  Now 
then,  what  sort  of  a  train  hath  she?  Many  or 
few?" 

"Sir,  she  is  accompanied,  as  her  due  is,  by  two 
stirrup-boys,  half  a  score  men-at-arms,  an  esquire 
of  the  body,  a  seneschal,  a  confessor,  and  five 
tirewomen,    to    say    nothing    of    Sister    Guiscarda, 

48 


Brazcnbead   the   great 

who  hath  do  teeth  to  speak  of,  or  of  Sister  Petro- 
nilla,  who  loves  me  a  Httle  out  of  pity."  The  Cap- 
tain, musing,  made  a  note  of  Sister  Petronilla. 

"Very  sufficient  indeed  for  an  honorable  gentle- 
woman," he  said,  "and  very  pleasing  to  God,  I 
am  sure.  Now,  if  I  twisted  the  neck  of  one  of 
those  stirrup -jacks,  and  put  you  into  his  place 
and  breeches,  who  is  the  worse?"  Percival  glowed 
in  his  skin.  "No  one  would  be  the  worse,  sir," says 
he,  "save  perchance  the  boy  whose  neck  you  should 
be  pleased  to  wring;  and,  oh,  sir,  many,  many  would 
be  the  better!" 

"Let  be  then,"  said  the  Captain;  "I  will  arrange 
it  for  you."     Percival  sighed. 

"How  shall  I  thank  3^ou,  my  noble  benefactor?" 
he  said,  earnestly.  The  Captain  put  hands  on  his 
shoulders. 

"You  shall  thank  me  by  your  deeds,  my  lad. 
I  know  a  youth  of  parts  when  I  see  him — a  pale 
face  that  knows  the  look  of  letters,  a  thin  hand 
that  can  curl  about  a  pen-holder.  You  are  exactly 
what  I  need.  Don't  suppose  that  you  are  not  to 
work  for  your  bliss.  Not  at  all.  You  shall  do  a 
pretty  work  in  the  world  before  you  are  a  moon 
older.  Now  I  am  for  the  Abbey  of  Hyde.  Have 
you  any  commands  for  me  ?  A  billet  for  the  round 
eyes  of  Mawdleyn  Touchett?  A  love-lock?  Ah, 
you  are  shorn  like  a  Burgundian,  I  see." 

"Sir,"  says  Percival,  "I  will  write  if  I  may." 

"Write,   write,"   his  friend  urged  him.     "I   am 

49 


Tond   Jf  docntiircs 

glad  you  have  the  knack  of  that.     Presently  you 
shall  be  writing  for  the  realm!" 

Percival,  using  his  knee  for  desk,  wrote  in  the 
inn-yard : 

My  pretty  lamb,  these  words  shall  kiss  thine  eyes,  letting 
thee  know  that  I  am  near  at  hand,  withal  crying  to  be 
nearer.  And  so  I  shall  be  anon,  as  I  am  assured  by  the 
noblest  friend  ever  young  man  had.  Start  not,  color  not, 
be  surprised  at  nothing  thou  shalt  see  or  hear  to-morrow. 
O  my  lovely  love,  my  rose,  my  dear,  kiss  this  paper  where 
my  heart  is  spilt. — From  thy  true  love, 

Poor  Percival. 

To  my  Sweet  Mistress  Mawdleyn  Touchett,  by  a  very 
trusty  hand. 

"Read  it  over  to  me,  boy,"  said  Captain  Brazen- 
head.  This  Percival  did,  with  some  confusion  of  face. 

"By  the  bones  of  Saint  Jezebel,"  said  his  friend, 
"that  is  the  prettiest  letter  but  three  I  have  ever 
read  of — ah,  or  caused  to  be  written.  Soon  enough, 
that  gate,  you  shall  wriggle  where  that  will  go. 
Now  help  me  out  with  my  horse  and  stuff.  I 
lodge  at  Hyde  this  night;  and  do  you  lie  snug  in 
the  Strangers'  Hall,  my  dear,  and  stay  there  till  I 
send  for  you." 
III.  How  Captain  Brazenhead  was  Recruited 

The  deeds  of  Captain  Brazenhead  from  this 
point  became  swift  and  ruthless ;  they  demand  epic 
treatment  wholly  beyond  my  present  means,  and 
would  be  omitted,  with  a  bare  mention  of  the 
fact   accomplished,  were  it  not  for  one  beautiful 

50 


Brazcnbcad   tbe   Great 

flaw  in  them,  ver\^  characteristic  of  the  man,  which 
(although  he  had  no  notion  of  it  then)  entirely 
spoiled  his  own  real  design,  to  Percival  Perceforest's 
incalculable  benefit.  Let  me,  therefore,  say  that 
the  Captain  rode  (upon  his  stolen  horse)  into  the 
stables  of  the  Abbot  of  Hyde,  and  told  a  lay- 
brother  whom  he  found  there  that  he  was  to  be  a 
guest  for  that  night.  Dismounted,  he  stalked  into 
the  stables  to  see  the  animals.  There  was  a  fat, 
cream-colored  Galician  horse  there,  with  a  head- 
stall of  red  leather.     He  risked  his  all  upon  that. 

"What!"  he  cried  out,  "is  my  gossip  the  Lady 
of  Ambresbury  abroad?     Is  that  possible?" 

"Her  ladyship  is  here  for  one  night,  indeed, 
sir,"  says  lay -brother  Eupeptus.  The  Captain 
faced  him,  with  terrible  eyes. 

"And  does  she  know,  thinkest  thou,  bare-poll, 
that  her  dear  Cambases  is  herded  with  common 
sumpter-beasts  ?  By  my  head  I  will  never  believe 
it.  Where  are  her  people?  Where  are  her  two 
stirrup-boys,  her  half  a  score  men-at-arms,  her 
esquire  of  the  body,  her  seneschal,  her  confessor, 
her  five  tirewomen,  to  say  nothing  of  Sister  Guis- 
carda,  who  has  no  teeth,  or  of  Sister  Petronilla, 
who  loves  me  a  little  out  of  pity  ?  Lord  of  battles, 
brother,  answer  me  quick!" 

"Sir,"  replied  the  trembling  brother,  "I  believe 
they  are  in  chapel  at  this  hour;  but  the  two  lads 
are  out  in  the  meads,  I  am  sure,  birds'-nesting. 
I  saw  them  go  down  this  half-hour  or  more,  and 

SI 


Tend   ildoen  ttirc$ 

1*11  swear  to  their  present  occupation   (once  they 
be  there)  by  my  lively  hopes  of  Heaven." 

Captain  Brazenhead,  with  a  great  air,  strode 
out  of  the  court-yard;  but,  instead  of  going  into 
the  Abbey,  he  turned  through  a  wicket-gate  into 
the  Abbot's  garden,  skirted  a  yew  hedge,  found 
a  hole  in  it,  wormed  himself  through,  crossed  a 
kitchen  plot,  a  herbary,  a  nuttery,  climbed  a  wall 
by  means  of  a  fig  tree,  and  dropped  ten  feet  into 
the  meads.  Then  he  took  his  way  over  the  grow- 
ing grass  towards  the  river,  which  he  saw  coiling 
between  banks  of  bright  green,  like  a  blue  snake 
enlarging  under  the  sun.  The  evening  was  very 
fair,  the  sun  behind  the  towers  of  Wolvesey,  the 
rooks  circling  about  the  Nun's  Walk.  Larks  soared 
and  sang,  a  soft  wind  played  over  the  meadows. 
The  Captain  particularly  delighted  in  the  cowslips, 
which,  springing  everywhere  about  his  feet,  appealed 
to  his  tenderest  feelings,  and  caused  him  to  skip 
like  a  lamb  unweaned,  lest  he  should  unhappily 
tread  on  any  nodding  crown  of  them.  "My  fresh 
beauties!  My  dairy-delights!"  cried  he,  "I  would 
as  soon  trample  my  mother's  grave  as  your  wag- 
ging golden  heads?"  Prancing  thus,  full  of  the 
soft  mood  which  opening  adventure  always  brings 
to  the  truly  adventurous,  carolling  and  talking 
secrets  to  the  flowers,  he  drew  near  the  smooth- 
flowing,  dimpled  waters  of  Itchen,  deep  and  dark 
just  here.  Right  and  left,  up  and  down  river  he 
looked,    first   at   the   rising   trout,   next   for  bigger 

52 


Brdzenl)eaa   tbe   Great 

game.  He  clacked  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  at 
what  he  made  out.  "I  am  in  luck's  way  this 
happy  evening,"  he  told  himself,  "I  have  divided 
the  enemy."  This  was  the  case.  To  his  left  he 
saw  a  figure  in  dark  clothes — or  (to  be  exact)  the 
lower  half  of  a  figure — busy  in  a  clump  of  osiers; 
to  his  right  another,  very  delicately  pink  in  the 
declining  sunlight,  sitting  on  the  bank  of  the  river, 
naked  arms  clasping  naked  knees,  chin  atop.  "This 
is  my  game,"  said  the  Captain  to  himself;  **I  leave 
sedge-warblers  to  the  other  innocent.  This  one  is  a 
bather.  He  shall  have  a  long  swim,  by  my  im- 
mortal part." 

Captain  Brazenhead,  on  his  belly,  crept  warily 
up  a  drain;  and  it  had  assuredly  gone  ill  with  the 
Prioress's  stirrup-boy  had  his  stalking  enemy  not 
happened  upon  some  very  early  forget-me-nots 
growing  upon  the  north  bank  of  his  covert.  This 
is  one  of  those  star-directed  chances  which  may 
change  the  fates  of  Empires.  Seeing  these  flowers, 
"Oh,  patch  of  heaven's  blue!  Oh,  eyes  of  the  deep 
hiding-place  of  my  God!"  breathed  the  prone,  de- 
lighted Captain  Brazenhead.  "Oh,  color  of  sacred 
hope,  what  bHssful  fortune  drew  my  sight  to  thine  ?" 
He  picked  tw^o  or  three  of  the  starry  flow^ers  and 
peered  over  the  drain,  as  he  did  so,  at  the  uncon- 
scious youth',  who,  with  his  knees  clasped  between 
his  hands,  still  looked  at  the  water.  Said  the  Cap- 
tain in  his  thought,  "My  lad,  these  azure  blossoms 
have  saved  thy  virgin  life.     Thank  the  Maker  of  all 

53 


Tend  BA^tntUTti 

flowers!"  So  said,  he  sprang  suddenly  upon  him 
from  behind,  as  a  man  will  throw  himself  upon  a 
great  fish  in  a  shallow.  The  boy,  smothered  under 
fold  upon  fold  of  Captain,  could  neither  move  nor 
cry  out:  one  great  knee  was  over  his  mouth,  an- 
other pressed  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  his  toes  were 
pricked  by  a  fierce  beard.  The  Captain  at  leisure 
reached  over  for  his  captive's  shirt,  and  tore  it  into 
three  long  strips  over  his  head.  With  one  of  these 
he  securely  bound  the  prisoner's  ankles ;  turning  him 
over,  he  next  tied  his  hands  behind  his  back.  Last- 
ly he  wound  up  his  mouth  wi-th  three  or  four  thick- 
nesses of  calico;  then  carried  him  off  and  laid  him 
snugly  in  the  drain,  which  was  very  nearly  dry. 
He  did  not  forget  to  choose  a  place  for  him  close  to 
the  patch  of  early  forget-me-nots.  "There,  my 
chicken,"  he  said,  kindly,  "your  eyes  shall  be  glad- 
dened by  the  sight  of  the  innocent  saviors  of  your 
life.  Look  upon  these  little  blue  beauties,  and 
thank  God  night  and  morning  for  one  of  the  fairest 
sights  His  world  can  offer  you."  So  said,  he  picked 
up  the  discarded  clothes  and  ran  as  fast  as  he  could 
towards  the  Abbey. 

He  broke  through  gates  and  doors,  raced  down 
passages,  crossed  the  Little  Cloister,  and  jostled  a 
way  for  himself  between  the  crowd  of  servants  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  refectory.  The  monks  were 
at  supper  under  the  direction  of  the  Prior,  who  sat 
at  the  high  table.  The  Lord  Abbot,  no  doubt,  was 
entertaining  guests  in  his  parlor;  was  therefore  more 

54 


Brascnbcaa   tbc   Great 

remote  from  approach.  It  would  be  necessary  for 
the  Captain  to  roar  if  he  wished  (as  he  did  wish)  to 
be  heard  in  there;  and  yet  his  sense  of  fitness  told 
him  that  he  should  not  bewail  outrageously  so  slight 
a  misfortune  as  he  had  been  able  to  procure.  "The 
noise  I  shall  have  to  make,"  he  had  said  to  himself, 
reasoning  as  he  ran,  "if  I  am  to  penetrate  the  walls 
of  the  Abbot's  parlor,  would  be  extravagant  for  the 
death  of  a  prelate.  Tush!  and  I  am  to  waste  it 
upon  a  thin  little  boy  not  even  drowned  in  truth. 
But  what  else  can  I  do  to  serve  my  friend  Perce- 
forest?" 

Even  as  he  said  the  words,  being  within  the  doors 
of  the  refectory,  he  began  a  wail  which  might  well 
wake  the  dead.  Holding  on  high  the  limp  testimony 
of  his  news,  he  poured  the  whole  of  his  magnificent 
natural  organ  into  gusts  and  volleys  of  woe  towards 
the  rafters.  Tuba  miruni  spargens  somim !  "Oh, 
too  much  dole  to  be  borne!  Oh,  misery  of  men! 
Hapless,  hapless  Narcissus!  Hylas,  early  cut  off! 
Out  and  alas!  mes  tres  chers  freres,  look  upon  these 
weeds!"  It  was  as  if  the  Seven  Vials  had  been 
loosed,  as  if  the  Archangel  were  sounding  the  Last 
Trump,  and  all  the  unhappy  dead  voicing  their  de- 
spair. "O  lasso!  Oime!  O  troppo,  troppo  dolore!* 
pursued  the  Captain,  intoxicated  with  his  fancy, 
and  breaking  easily  into  the  Italian.  The  monks 
and  their  guests  were  all  on  foot,  the  servants  ran 
about,  the  dogs  came  out  from  under  the  tables  and 
howled  at  the  howling  Captain ;  the  Reverend  Prior 

55 


Tona   Jfdoenturcs 

whipped  his  napkin  from  his  neck  (lest  he  should 
strangle)  and  swallowed  a  toast  before  the  time.  A 
picture  of  tragic  woe,  the  Captain  stood  before  him, 
exhibiting  in  one  hand  a  pair  of  murrey  breeches  and 
jerkin  of  leather,  in  the  other  a  stout  shoe,  two 
worsted  stockings,  and  what  remained  of  a  shirt. 

"Look  at  these  tokens.  Reverend  Father,"  says 
the  Captain,  "and  shudder  with  me." 

"Who  are  you?"  asks  the  Prior,  blowing  out  his 
lips.     The  Captain  was  ready  for  that. 

"I  am  Mallecho,  the  Sorrowful  Sprite,  the  Dark 
Herald,  Testadirame,"  he  announced  in  bodeful 
accents. 

"And  why  under  Heaven  do  you  show  me  your 
old  clothes?"  the  Prior  asked  him  testily.  The 
Captain  with  sobs  enlarged  upon  the  question. 
Would  to  God,  he  cried  out,  that  they  had  been  his! 
Alas!  they  had  covered  a  younger,  more  blossoming 
body  than  his  old  skin  could  hold.  The  nymphs, 
he  went  on  to  say,  had  the  beauteous  owner  of  these 
weeds;  Itchen's  blue  wave  rolled  over  him,  fishes  ex- 
plored his  armpits,  eels  and  other  serpents  wreathed 
his  legs.  "This  man,"  said  the  Reverend  Prior,  "is 
undoubtedly  mad.  Let  the  Almoner  be  sent  for, 
the  Infirmarer,  and  the  Exorciser — "  But  at  that 
moment  a  monk,  running  in  from  a  door  in  the 
panel,  knelt  before  the  Prior,  a  messenger  from  the 
Lord  Abbot  to  know  what  this  monstrous  com- 
motion could  be  about. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  the  change  in  Captain 

56 


Brazenbcdd   tDe   Great 

Brazenhead.  The  usher  of  woe  no  more,  there  stood 
erect  as  keen  a  man  of  affairs  as  ever  you  saw  in 
vour  Hfe.  "Your  pardon,  my  reverend  brothers,  I 
had  taken  this  good  father  for  your  Lord  Abbot. 
Conduct  me,  brother,  to  his  Grace.  Unless  I  grave- 
ly mistake,  I  have  sad  news  for  his  most  cherished 
guest." 

"Do  you  mean — ?"  the  Prior  began  to  ask. 

Captain  Brazenhead  laid  a  finger  to  his  mouth. 

"  I  do  mean — "  he  began  to  answer. 

"Take  him  with  you.  Brother  Harmonius,"  said 
the  Prior;  so  the  Captain  with  his  tokens  was  led 
away  to  the  Abbot's  parlor. 

In  this  very  stately  apartment  of  black  oak  and 
silver  sconces  and  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
he  saw  all  that  he  wanted.  The  Lord  Abbot  was 
there,  a  shaggy -browed,  portly  man,  enthroned. 
On  his  right  hand  sat  the  Prioress  of  Ambresbury, 
majestic,  ox-eyed,  slow-moving,  with  the  remains 
of  beauty  carefully  husbanded ;  next  to  her  a  yellow 
old  nun  with  a  few  teeth ;  next  to  her  again  the  un- 
doubted Mawdleyn  Touchett  of  Percival  Perce- 
forest's  handling,  a  fine  die-away  girl,  with  a  creamy 
skin,  bountiful  shape  by  no  means  concealed  in  a 
dress  of  white  cloth,  and  a  pair  of  brimming  brown 
eves  which,  his  experience  told  him,  would  go  through 
a  diaphragm  quicker  than  a  knife  through  butter. 
Upon  her  further  side  was  another  nun,  of  mild, 
repining  countenance,  whose  head  mostly  inclined 
to  one  side,  and  who  as  she  talked  drew  the  breath 
5  57 


inward.  This  must  be  Sister  Petronilla,  who  loved 
Percival  a  little.  Other  guests  there  were,  of  whom 
this  history  has  nothing  to  report.  Supper  was 
over:  the  Abbot  dallied  with  a  sop  in  wine,  the 
Prioress  with  a  silver  toothpick;  Mawdleyn  Touch- 
ett,  who  seemed  in  a  melting  mood,  rather  tumbled 
and  very  tired,  played  with  her  fingers  in  her  lap. 
A  couple  of  minstrels  half  kneeled  on  the  floor,  and 
strummed  their  strings  to  deaf  ears.  Captain 
Brazenhead  was  a  diversion,  a  healthy  gale  in  a 
close  garden;  the  singers  stopped  of  their  own  ac- 
cord in  the  middle  of  an  heroic  couplet,  telling  how 

Sire  Simone  de  Rochefort 
N'i  porta  pas  baniere  a  tort, 

and  Captain  Brazenhead  came  lightly  to  the  point. 

"By  your  leave,  my  Lord  Abbot,"  he  said,  then 
turned  nobly  to  the  Prioress  of  Ambresbury. 
"Madam,  I  bring  this  sorrowful  testimony  of  the 
too  early  demise  of  one  of  your  servants.  A  young 
boy.  Madam,  whose  privilege  and  hope  it  was  to 
serve  by  your  foot,  seeking  the  solace  of  the  water, 
has  found  eternal  solace  in  the  bosom  of  Our 
Lady  (whom  let  us  bless  forever!).  I  found  these 
clothes  by  the  water.  Madam;  the  tender  body  I 
found  not." 

The  Prioress  removed  the  toothpick,  as  she  said, 
"I  recognize  the  color  of  my  livery,  sir,  but  do  not 
call  to  mind  the  wearer.  It  may  be  very  true  what 
you  tell  me." 

S8 


Brazenbeaa   tbc   ereat 

"It  is  most  woundily  true,  Madam,"  says  the 
Captain,  with  a  ghmpse  at  Mawdleyn's  brown 
eyes. 

''I  do  not  doubt  you,  sir,"  returned  the  Prioress; 
"but  I  suppose  I  can  find  boys  enough  in  Win- 
chester. Meantime,  I  am  very  much  obHged  to 
you  for  your  labors." 

"Madam,"  says  the  Captain,  "my  labors,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  call  what  I  protest  to  be 
delights,  are  but  begun,  if  (as  I  assume)  your 
Ladyship  needs  a  new  stirrup-boy.  I  hope  I 
know  what  is  due  from  a  man  of  my  degree  to 
a  lady  of  yours.  We  chevaliers,  Madam,  are 
sworn  to  the  succor  of  ladies;  and  I  should  never 
dare  look  again  into  the  face  of  my  friend  the  Duke 
of  Milan  (who  dubbed  me  knight)  if  I  were  false 
to  that  oath.  Madam,  I  found  the  husk,  let  me 
find  a  kernel;  I  found  the  poor  weeds,  let  me  find 
the  sprouting  bud." 

"I  confess  that  I  do  not  altogether  understand 
your  desires,"  said  the  Prioress,  with  some  hesitar 
tion;  "but  if  the  Duke's  Grace  of  Milan — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  put  in  the  Abbot,  "if  the  Duke's 
Grace  of  Milan — " 

"Would  to  God,  dear  Madam,"  cried  the  Captain, 
with  real  feeling,  "would  to  God,  m}^  Lord  Abbot,  I 
could  suf)ply  you  with  the  kind  of  lads  that  flower 
in  my  good  friend's  court!  Hey,  the  bloom,  the 
glitter,  the  Cupid's  limbs  of  these  dexterous  youths! 
They  will  tie  you  a  shoe,  pommel  you  a  cushion,  they 

59 


Tend   Jldi^enfurcs 

will  trim  you  a  wimple,  swing  you  to  a  horse,  dance, 
sing,  cap  verses,  tell  tales  like  young  gods  at  play  of 
an  evening.  I  cannot,  in  this  homely  land,  perform 
the  impossible,  alack!  but  I  can  get  you  a  very  handy 
youngster  of  my  own  retinue,  and  warrant  him  no 
lick-pot  neither — if  that  will  serve  your  Ladyship's 
turn." 

This  was  a  delicate  moment,  if  you  please,  for 
the  Captain.  Directly  he  had  offered,  he  knew 
that  he  had  offered  too  much  and  too  soon;  but 
there  was  no  withdrawing.  The  Abbot  spoke  first, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair;  plainly  he  was  weary  of 
the  thing:  "This  appears  to  be  a  business  for  my 
sister  of  Ambresbury  to  consider  more  with  her 
seneschal  than  with  her  host.  Yet  the  gentleman's 
pains  merit  some  courtesy  at  our  hands.  Sir,"  he 
said  to  the  Captain,  "a  cup  of  wine  with  you." 

"My  Lord,"  said  Captain  Brazenhead,  "there 
spoke  a  prelate." 

The  wine  w^as  brought;  Captain  Brazenhead 
drank  deep.  After  that  he  began  to  talk,  and 
the  minstrel's  office  was  at  an  end.  He  spoke 
first  of  his  travels  in  remote  and  marvellous  parts 
of  the  world — of  the  desert  between  the  Church 
of  Saint  Catharine  and  Jerusalem;  of  the  Dry  Tree; 
and  of  how  roses  first  came  into  the  world.  The 
City  of  Calamye  and  its  lamentable  law  of  marriage 
engaged  him  next;  also  the  evil  custom  of  the  Isle 
of  Lamary,  and  concerning  the  palace  of  the  King 
of  the  Isles  of  Java.     He  told  of  trees  that  bear 

60 


Brdzcnbcaa   tbe   6rcat 

meal,  honey,  wine,  and  venom;  of  the  herb  Edelfla 
which  is  said  to  resemble  a  woman;  of  the  realms 
of  Tharse ;  of  the  Devil's  head  in  the  Valley  Perilous/ 
and  of  pismires  and  their  hills  of  gold.  By  a 
transition  as  easy  as  it  was  abrupt,  he  passed  to 
Natural  Science,  in  which  he  showed  himself  learned 
without  pedantry.  He  spoke  of  the  nine  eyes  of 
the  lamprey,  and  reasoned  boldly  for  the  common 
opinion  of  the  ostrich,  which  conceives  that  it 
digesteth  iron.  This  he  said  he  had  himself  proved, 
though  he  must  be  excused  from  telling  them  how. 
I  wish  you  could  have  heard  him  upon  the  vexed 
question  of  whether  hares  are  indeed  hermaphro- 
dites ;  he  was  so  adroit  in  handling,  fertile  in  parallels, 
discreet,  subtle,  provocative  of  thought.  And  he 
carried  his  hearers  with  him.  Not  so,  however,  in 
the  matter  of  mandrakes,  to  whom  he  denied  the 
virtue  of  shriekin;^  when  pulled  by  night.  Of  this 
the  Prioress  of  Ambresbury  was  positive;  equally 
constant  was  the  Abbot  of  Hyde  in  the  assertion 
that  they  have  thighs.  The  Captain  laughed  off 
his  obstinacy. 

He  spoke  next  of  perils,  painted  in  battle-pieces 
with  a  broad  brush  as  he  went.  He  took  his  hearers 
with  him  to  sunny  foreign  courts,  to  Venice,  to 
Rimini,  to  Florence,  back  again  to  his  dear  Milan. 
They  beheld  him  head  a  sortie  at  the  siege  of  Rhodes. 
When  the  Barbary  corsairs  chained  him  naked  to  a 
galley  they  sat  still,  crisping  their  hands,  until  he 
picked  up  with  his  toes  the  half  of  a  file ;  then  while 

6i 


fond   fldt^enturcs 

his  escape  was  in  the  framing,  while  the  file  (wetted 
with  spittle)  ground  through  the  hot,  dense  nights, 
ah,  how  they  held  their  breath!  He  whirled  them  o£E 
with  him  into  the  Low  Coim tries,  and  bade  them  wait 
while  he  cut  the  dykes  and  flooded  a  whole  coimtry- 
side.  He  burned  the  Pucelle  of  Orleans  before  their 
dilating  eyes,  and  owned  with  natural  blushes  that 
it  was  himself  who  (for  reasons  then  found  good)  so 
nearly  broke  the  marriage-treaty  between  King 
Harry's  Grace  and  the  daughter  of  King  Rene  of 
Anjou.  In  a  word,  by  these  his  accounts  of  wide 
experiences,  of  patient,  curious  research,  of  gests 
and  feats  of  arms,  rapidly  delivered,  copiously 
illustrated  and  exceedingly  untrue,  he  had  his 
auditory  between  his  finger  and  thumb;  and  not 
even  a  little  misadventure  w^ith  Mawdleyn  midway 
of  his  oration  could  throw  him  off  his  balance. 
The  fact  is,  the  Captain  greatly  admired  this  fine 
girl,  and  paid  her  the  tribute  of  his  looks  and 
speech  a  little  more  than  he  need,  or  was  prudent. 
This,  while  it  escaped  the  Prioress,  by  no  means 
escaped  the  vigilance  of  the  sour  old  nun  who  sat 
at  her  left  hand,  and  who  deliberately  brought  up 
the  girl's  blue  riding-cloak  from  the  back  of  her 
chair,  and  pulled  the  hood  over  her  head  so  as  to 
cover  her  eyes.  Thus  hooded  like  a  hawk  the 
poor  child  remained;  yet,  while  the  Captain  not 
so  much  as  pwaused  in  his  discourse  at  the  cruel  act, 
he  was  careful  to  see  the  gentler  nun  on  the  other 
side  wince  at  it,  and  (good  husbandman!)  made  that 

62 


BrazcnDcaa   tDc   Great 

serve  his  turn,  as  you  will  discover.  The  end  of  all 
was  that  he  won  over  the  Prioress  of  Ambresbury, 
who,  on  rising  from  the  table,  begged  his  company 
for  a  further  private  conversation.  By  this  time 
she  had  been  led  to  believe  that  Captain  Brazenhead 
had  nearly  lost  his  life  in  the  effort  to  save  her 
stirrup-boy's,  that  he  had  provided  interment  at  his 
own  charges,  and  wTitten  gentlemanly  letters  (en- 
closing a  sum  of  money )  to  the  parents.  Such  are 
the  effects  of  the  art  of  suggestion  in  rapid  narra- 
tive. 

At  the  going  out,  which  was  done  with  great 
ceremony  of  ushers,  a  chaplain  and  waiting  w^omen, 
the  gentle  nun  fluttered  near  Captain  Brazenhead, 
wishful,  but  not  daring,  to  speak.  The  Captain 
encouraged  her  with  a  sort  of  eye  that  takes  you 
more  than  half-way. 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  this  palpitating  creature,  "oh, 
sir,  forgive  my  sister  Guiscarda.  She  hath  our 
charge  greatly  on  her  conscience." 

"Dear  Madam,"  replied  the  Captain  soothingly, 
"say  no  more.  She  hath  a  fine  heart,  I  am  sure, 
and  a  lofty,  great  soul." 

"  She  is  too  severe,"  said  the  good  nun.  "  Gentle- 
ness may  lead  where  harsh  dealing  may  never, 
never  drive."  Captain  Brazenhead  took  her  hand 
and  whispered  over  it: 

"You  share  the  qualities  of  the  blessed  angels, 
dear  Madam,"  he  said.  "Be  now  an  angel  indeed, 
a  pious    messenger.     Hist!     Come  close.     You  are 

63 


Tend    Jldi^cnturcs 

a  friend  of  our  fair  prisoner.  You  are,  I  know  it; 
say  no  more." 

The  nun  quailed  to  hear  him. 

"I  love  the  dear  child — " 

"You  do!  And  she  loves — and  she  is  loved — and 
she  suffers — we  suffer — they  suffer — ha!" 

"Oh,  sir—" 

"You  have  a  red  heart,  Madam.  Quick,  quick! 
Take  this  writing — 'tis  for  her,  a  balsam  for  a 
bruised  little  heart.  Hearts  go  bleeding;  stanch 
the  wound.  Deliver  it  as  you  can,  while  I  hold  the 
old  lady.  I  dare  no  more.  Oh,  sacred  bond  be- 
tween you  and  me!"  He  thrust  into  Sister  Petro- 
nilla's  trembling  hand  Percival  Perceforest's  love- 
letter.  Before  she  could  protest  or  implore  he  was 
gone,  had  stepped  after  the  Prioress's  people,  and 
was  in  the  thick  of  new  oratory.  Here  I  cannot  ask 
you  to  follow  him,  but  from  what  you  know  of  his 
powers  already  displayed,  you  must  judge  the  end 
of  the  adventure.  He  enlisted  Master  Perceforest, 
in  the  name  of  his  sister's  son,  Piers  Thrustwood 
(you  mark  the  disguise)  into  the  place  and  breeches 
of  the  youth  who  lay  gagged  and  naked  in  a  ditch 
in  Winchester  Meads,  hard  by  a  clump  of  early  for- 
get-me-nots. By  this  time  corroborative  testimony 
had  been  brought  home  by  the  second  stirrup-boy, 
the  birds'-nester. 

That  night  Mawdleyn  Touchett  wrote  as  follows: 

O  heart!    S(ister)    P(etronilla)   delivered  me  your  paper 
after  supper.     Now  it  is,   you  know  where,   well   kissed. 

64 


Brazcnbcad   tbc  Great 

I  would  I  had  you  there.  They  pulled  my  hood  over  my 
face  because  your  soldier  looked  at  me.  I  saw  your  face 
the  better.  I  luill  not  see  you  to-morroiv,  as  you  bid  me; 
and  yet,  O  shall  I  not  see  you? 

Good-night,    good-night,    good-night! 

Your  pledged, 

Mawdleyn. 

Outside  this  she  dared  to  write,  unable  to  resist 
the  look  of  the  words,  "To  my  bosom's  lord,  P.  P., 
give  this,  M.  T.  dardant  desyr,"  and  coaxed  Sister 
Petronilla  into  delivering  it  to  the  Captain. 

That  same  night  Captain  Brazenhead  lay  on  his 
back  upon  the  Abbot's  good  flock;  Percival  moaned 
in  his  half  slumber,  and  rolled  about  upon  the 
beaten  floor  of  the  Common  Hall ;  and  Sister  Petro- 
nilla, having  Mawdleyn's  happy  cheek  against  her 
bosom,  tried  to  believe  herself  justified  by  faith, 
not  works. 
IV.  How  Percival  Prospered 

"The  humble  supplication  of  Lancelot  Corbet, 
Citizen  and  Scrivener  of  London,  Richard  Smith, 
mariner,  of  the  county  of  the  town  of  Kingston- 
upon-Hull,  of  Gundrith,  his  wife,  native  of  Norro- 
way,  and  of  Giles  Cruttenden  of  Mereworth,  in  the 
county  of  Kent,  yeoman,"  was  presented  in  the 
morning  early  to  "the  Reverend  Mother,  their  Good 
Ladyship,  the  Prioress  of  Ambresbury";  and  was 
to  the  effect  that  her  orators,  devoutly  disposed  by 
motions  of  their  spiritual  parts  in  no  wise  to  be 
mistaken,  were  bounden  upon  the  pilgrimage  of 
Saint  Thomas;  but  because  of  the  disturbed  state 

65 


fond   /Idocnttircs 

of  the  road,  owing  to  these  unhappy  times  of  dis- 
cord, and  the  far  purposes  of  Almighty  God  (not  to 
be  discerned  by  men  alone),  they  went  in  peril  of 
their  lives  and  substance,  "being  but  poor  folk  un- 
friended of  any."  Their  prayer  was  that  they 
might  be  allowed  to  join  the  retinue  of  the  Prioress, 
and  be  friends  of  her  friends,  foes  of  her  foes;  where- 
by they  could  not  doubt  but  that  Saint  Thomas 
would  be  favorable  to  them,  and  the  Prioress  profit 
by  the  added  prayers  of  very  grateful  persons. 
Also  her  petitioners,  as  in  duty  bound,  would  ever 
pray. 

The  Prioress  was  inclined  to  admit  these  honest 
people  to  her  company;  but  Captain  Brazenhead, 
who  enjoyed  some  authority  with  her,  said,  "Pass 
the  mariner  and  his  (apparently)  heathen  wife,  pass 
Cruttenden  into  Kent;  but  leave  me  to  deal  with 
Corbet  the  Scrivener,  for  I  know  him  of  old  for  a 
short-faced,  snarHng  rogue."  It  was  true  that 
Captain  Brazenhead  knew  him  for  his  acquaintance 
of  yesterday  in  the  Church  of  Saint  Swithin.  When, 
therefore,  the  short-faced  man  came  pacing  tow- 
ards the  gates  of  Hyde,  cloaked,  strapped,  and  well 
embaled,  the  Captain  met  him  with  a  short  "Ha, 
Scrivener,  dismount.     None  enter  here." 

"By  your  leave,  sir,"  says  the  Scrivener. 

"You  have  no  leave  of  mine,"  said  the  Captain  in 
reply;  "therefore,  come  down  or  I  give  you  number 
three."     He  touched  his  pommel. 

When    the    Scrivener,    after    multitudinous    un- 

66 


Brazcnftead   tbe   6rcat 

strappings,  was  on  firm  ground,  Captain  Brazen- 
head  put  on  a  ver}^  wise  face,  and  said:  "A  word 
will  be  enough  in  your  ear.  We  caiT\^  with  us  a 
person  of  consequence.  You  love  Y — k."  The 
Scrivener  went  as  white  as  the  favored  rose. 

"  Who— what— how!" 

"Precisely,"  replied  the  Captain,  "you  answer 
yourself.  Say  no  more:  finger  on  lip;  eyes  on  the 
ground;  ears  wide — pass  in."  The  Scrivener  went 
slowdy  in.  Captain  Brazenhead,  his  luck  still  hold- 
ing, had  spoken  wiseher  than  he  knew. 

At  this  point  you  may  see,  if  you  will,  Percival 
Perceforest  demurely  habited  in  the  murrey  jacket 
and  breeches,  the  worsted  stockings,  greasy  cap, 
and  shoes  of  the  Prioress's  stirrup-boy;  you  may 
guess  what  glint  lay  behind  Mawdleyn  Touchett's 
dewy  eyes,  with  what  clouded  white  and  opening 
red  she  flushed  and  paled  as  each  moment  of  a 
wondrous  day  brought  up  its  alarms,  to  melt  them 
suddenly  in  rewards ;  how  the  heart  of  Sister  Petro- 
nilla  (thick  in  the  plot)  played  postman  at  her  ribs; 
how  greatly  Captain  Brazenhead  behaved,  flourish- 
ing the  party  forward  out  of  Hants,  how  often  his 
cap  was  in  his  hand  to  the  Prioress  of  Ambresbur^^ 
how  often  her  ear  at  his  tongue's  command.  I  can- 
not stay  longer  in  Winton,  or  I  would  tell  you  my- 
self. It  shall  suffice  to  say  that  Percival  pleased. 
The  Prioress  liked  handsome  persons  about  her; 
Percival,  whose  nerves  made  him  vivid,  looked  ver\^ 
handsome  in  his  meekness,  eagemess-on-the-leash, 

67 


Tona   JIdvcnturcs 

and  high  colors.  They  had  not  gone  very  far  be- 
fore a  chance  outburst  of  his  in  the  French  tongue 
— he  sang  from  a  full  heart  and  quite  unconsciously 
— gave  his  mistress  a  hint  that,  if  the  new  lad  was 
deficient  in  stable  knowledge,  he  had  other  love. 

This  happened  when  they  were  no  further  on 
their  way  than  the  two  miles  of  deep  descent  and 
gentle  rise  which  bring  you  to  Headborne  Worthy 
and  its  miraculous  Rood,  which  the  curious  may  still 
see,  beaten,  dumb,  blind,  but  portentous,  in  the 
sacristy  of  that  weathered  shrine — a  maimed  Titan 
guarded  by  heroes.  Sister  Guiscarda  had  vowed 
a  candle  to  this  image  should  she  be  delivered  from 
the  face-ache  of  the  previous  day.  She  was  de- 
livered. Captain  Brazenhead  judged  it  wise  to  put 
a  prayer  out  to  usury.  Mawdleyn,  in  this  heyday 
of  her  heart,  must  needs  praise  the  kindly  Saints. 
But  the  Prioress  sat  her  saddle,  and  Percival,  seeing 
his  true  love  depart,  took  such  joy  in  her  mere  car- 
riage of  the  head,  had  such  exuberant  savor  of  the 
coming  day,  the  coming  days,  the  coming  week, 
which  he  should  spend  in  her  fragrant  company, 
that  as  he  loitered  dreaming  by  the  gate  he  forgot 
himself  and  began  to  sing: 

Si  cum  j'oi  la  Rose  aproch6e, 
Un  poi  la  trovai  engroiss6e, 
Et  vi  qu'ele  iere  plus  creiie 
Que  ge  ne  I'avoie  veiie.   .   .   . 

The  Prioress  pricked  up  her  ears,  but  let  Per- 
cival's  voice  go  wandering  on;  then  she  said,  "Come 

68 


Brazcnbcdd  tbe   6rcat 

hither,  Piers."  Percival  started,  blushed,  but 
obeyed. 

"Dost  thou  know  what  thou  singest  there?" 

"Yes,  please  you,  my  lady;  I  sang  the  'Roman 
de  la  Rose.'  " 

"Thou  hast  that  piece?" 

"I  had  all  of  it  by  heart  upon  a  time,  my  lady; 
but  have  lost  the  greater  part." 

"Begin,  if  you  please,"  said  the  Prioress;  so 
Percival  began: 

Maintes  gens  dient  que  en  songes  .  .  . 

and  had  got  as  far  as: 

Ou  vintiesme  an  de  mon  aage, 

when  the  pilgrims  came  out  of  church,  and  a  chance 
shot  from  Mawdleyn's  eyes  threw  him  out.  He 
helped  his  beloved  to  the  saddle,  he  shored  up 
Sister  Guiscarda  on  hers;  but  the  Prioress  did  not 
budge.  When  the  confusion  of  horses  was  over, 
she  asked  her  stirrup-boy  aloud,  whether  he  could 
continue  this  or  any  other  lay  ? 

"Madam,  if  it  please  you,"  said  Percival,  "I 
know  the  "Romaunt"  very  well;  and  I  know  the 
tale  of  the  "Twelve  Peers  and  Ganelon,"  and  of 
"  Gallien  le  Rhetore  "  (which  is  very  short),  and  also 
that  of  "  Le  Jouvencel,"  a  didactic  piece.  Moreover, 
I  know  that  story  of  "The  Proud  Lady  in  Amours," 
which  they  call  Blanchardyn,  and  also  "Isofere  the 

69 


Tend  Jldoenturcs 

Hardy,'*  and  "The  Lays  of  Marie  de  France." 
There  are  songs  in  "The  Ladies'  Orchard"  which  I 
can  sing  if  you  wish  for  them,  and  another  in  the 
Italian  tongue  which  begins  "In  the  greenwood  I 
found  a  shepherdess,"  and  certain  "Triumphs  of 
Petrarch,"  and  very  pleasant  sonnets  which  he 
wrote  to  the  dear  name  and  fame  of  Madame  Laura, 
his  mistress — any  of  these  I  can  sing,  whichever  the 
company  desire — " 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Prioress,  with  a  little  gasp, 
"and  the  airs  of  these  divine  inventions,  Percival 
— where  gat  you  these?" 

"Madam,"  repHed  he,  blushing  a  little,  '  some 
of  the  airs  were  devised  by  me  for  the  lute,  some 
in  plain-song,  and  some  in  prick-song  for  three  or 
four  voices,  and  some,  not  yet  considered,  I  hope 
to  achieve  as  I  go." 

"I  ask  you  now,"  said  the  Captain,  with  huge 
delight,  "is  this  a  prodigy  I  have  procreated  or 
not?"  It  came  natural  to  him  to  suppose  himself 
the  father  of  such  a  boy;  and,  after  all,  a  nephew 
is  not  far  removed. 

The  Prioress  was  observing  the  speaker  with 
gravity.  Without  taking  note  of  Captain  Brazen- 
head's  vaunt,  she  quietly  bade  him  go  on  where  he 
had  left  off.  The  obedient  lad  once  more  put  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  threw  up  his  chin,  and 
rippled  out  his  French  syllables  about  love,  with 
his  own  love's  heart  beating  a  little  above  his  own, 
and  her  brown  eyes  burning  through  the  top  of  his 

70 


head.  She  lent  him  eloquence;  he  sang  clear  and 
loud: 

Or  veil  eel  songe  rimaier 

Por  vos  cuers  plus  fere  esgaier 

Qu' amors  le  me  prie  et  commande.  .  .  • 

At  which  Last  words,  if  the  Prioress  had  been  wary, 
she  could  not  have  failed  to  see  deep  hue  call  unto 
deep.  For  Mawdleyn  grew  very  red,  and  Percival 
was  very  red;  and  Mawdleyn  dropped  her  eyes, 
and  Percival's  travelled  as  high  as  her  chin,  and 
stayed  there.  Two  others  saw  as  much  as  they 
should — namely.  Captain  Brazenhead,  who  thought 
it  too  good  to  last,  and  Master  Smith,  the  mariner, 
who  studied  Percival's  nose. 

"Very  pretty,"  said  the  Captain  to  himself,  "but 
full  of  jeopardy."  He  broke  in  to  address  the 
Prioress.  "Madam,"  he  said,  "the  sun  warns  me 
that  we  should  proceed.  Let  us  have  my  nephew's 
minstrelsy  on  the  way  by  all  means;  but  let  the 
ground-bass  be  our  horses*  hoofs.  We  have  a  far 
road  to  Alton  town." 

"This  swordsman  is  right,  my  lady,"  said  Corbet 
the  Scrivener.  "  Let  your  Ladyship's  boy  sing  as  he 
walks  by  your  Ladyship's  foot." 

"I  could  have  sworn  by  Saint  John  that  there 
was  but  one  long  nose  in  a  pretty  face  in  all  this 
world,"  the  Shipman  thought  to  himself.  "And 
whom  have  we  here?"  quoth  he.  The  Prioress 
took  up  the  Scrivener. 

71 


Tend   Jldocnturcs 

"My  boy  shall  walk  by  my  foot  no  further  than 
Alresford,"  she  said  with  decision.  "Young  man," 
she  turned  to  Percival,  "you  are  out  of  your  station, 
I  can  see.  I  will  look  to  your  advancement  if  I 
love  music." 

"I  thank  your  Ladyship,"  says  Percival;  and 
Captain  Brazenhead  glossed  that  text  with  "Cer- 
tainly, I  did  my  friend  Jack  a  good  turn  when  I  won 
this  throstle-cock.     'Tis  a  little  marvel  of  science." 

Now,  the  Prioress  would  have  had  the  "Romaunt 
of  the  Rose"  in  its  entirety,  though  it  should  have 
lasted  her  (as  it  would)  to  her  first  view  of  the 
golden  angel  on  Bell  Harry.  But  this  was  not  to 
be.  By  the  time  Percival  had  failed  at  the  three- 
hundred-and-fiftieth  line,  the  company  was  feverish 
for  something  which  they  might  possibly  under- 
stand. I  have  spoken  somewhat  of  the  Shipman 
who  travelled  with  them,  who  came  from  Kingston- 
upon-Hull,  called  himself  Richard  Smith,  and 
thought  he  knew  Percival's  nose.  This  was  a 
bright-eyed,  confident,  chin-in-the-air  kind  of  fel- 
low, a  golden-bearded,  apple-colored  man,  with  a 
thin  wife,  very  much  (and  too  much)  at  his  devo- 
tion, who  studied  the  singing-boy  sideways  the 
whole  time  of  his  singing,  watched  his  feet,  his 
fine  long  hands,  his  sharp  little  chin,  his  small 
mouth,  his  hot  little  eyes,  his  fine  long  nose.  He 
smacked  his  forehead  and  talked  to  himself,  he 
explored  the  sky,  the  downs,  the  birds  in  the  trees, 
but  all  to  no  purpose;  he  could  not  put  a  name  to 

72 


Brazcnbcdd   tbe   6rcdt 

his  memories.  When  Percival  faltered,  tried  back, 
caught  at  a  Une  ahead  and  could  not  work  up  to  it, 
this  mariner  broke  in  with  a  laugh. 

"Belay  there,  shipmate,  give  over  your  lead," 
quoth  he;  "you  cannot  bottom  it.  And  I,  dear 
Lord,  have  been  in  shoal  water  this  three  hours. 
By  Blackbeard  and  Whitebeard,  you  know  a  mort 
of  French  words,  and  all  of  them  different,  it 
seemeth.  Now,  I  would  like  to  know  of  you, 
w^here  gat  you  all  those  words?  For  you  and  I, 
little  master,  are  not  strangers." 

As  Percival  looked  startled  at  him,  "By  my 
head  and  heart,  Shipman,"  said  Captain  Brazen- 
head,  "you  have  spoilt  a  pretty  dream  I  was  in. 
For  to  hear  those  fair  words  took  me  back  to  the 
sack  of  Orleans,  where  I  lay  lapped  in  plenty,  and 
learned  that  tongue  out  of  as  choice  a  mouth  as 
your  wife  hath.  I  have  a  mind  to  set  my  nephew 
another  task.  What,  Piers,  what,  game-bird,  have 
at  3'ou  in  Tuscan  then!" 

"Nay,  sir,"  said  the  Prioress,  "let  Piers  alone. 
He  has  said  enough  for  his  turn." 

"Is  this  young  man  your  nephew,  soldier?" 
asked  the  Shipman.  Captain  Brazenhead  twisted 
his  mustachios. 

"I  would  like  to  see  the  older  man  who  denies 
it,"  he  said  with  a  glitter  in  his  eye. 

The  Scrivener,  who  feared  bloodshed  more  than 
he  feared  Captain  Brazenhead,  intervened  with  a 
hasty  suggestion,  that  he  supposed  the  friend  of 
6  73 


Tend   Jiavcnturcs 

the  Duke  of  Milan  might  have  as  many  nephews 
as  he  chose.  "Ah,"  said  the  Shipman  darkly,  "and 
nieces — like  the  Pope — you  would  say!"  The  Cap- 
tain half  drew  his  sword,  but  here  the  Prioress  stayed 
him  with  a  look.  A  tale  from  the  Scrivener  held 
them  as  far  as  their  lodging  at  Alresford  on  the 
Hill. 
V.  How  Percival  and  the  Captain  was  Bold 

In  the  morning  very  early  Percival  Perceforest 
rose  from  his  bed  of  straw  in  the  stables,  and  busied 
himself  with  the  horses'  provand,  singing  softly  as 
he  worked, 

Now,  Winter,  go  away, 
And  hide  thy  white  array. 
Graiid,  MagdaleruB — 

while  his  bedfellow,  the  true  stirrup  -  groom,  gibed 
as  he  lay.  Yesterday  and  yesternight  had  wrought 
wonders  with  the  young  man.  He  had  a  clear 
color,  his  eyes  shone,  courage  tingled  in  his  fists. 
So  much  was  this  the  state  of  his  case  that  within 
a  short  half-hour  of  his  rising  he  was  pommelling 
that  other  groom,  that  other  him  again,  as  if  all 
his  future  bliss  wxre  staked  upon  it.  Battle  was 
cried  and  delivered  in  the  inn-yard,  where  Captain 
Brazenhead,  his  first  flagon  on  his  knee,  sunned 
himself  and  enjoyed  the  game.  Discretion  was  no 
part  of  that  great  man's  equipment,  boldness  was 
all.  "Stick  in  your  right,  Piers — at  him  again! 
Now,  now,  now,  land  him  on  the  ear!     Ah,  foul 

74 


BrazcnDcaa   tbc   fircat 

blow!  Swing  round,  boy — pafi!  now  let  drive — " 
Such  were  his  vociferous  comments  on  the  scuffling 
youths.  In  less  time  than  it  has  taken  me  to  write 
this  exordium  Percival  had  a  black  eye,  his  colleague 
a  mouth  full  of  red  teeth,  many  of  which  he  was 
forced  to  discard.  The  air  was  thick  with  eyes 
and  alarms ;  Mawdleyn  Touchett  strained  in  anguish 
from  an  upper  window,  provocatively  dishevelled; 
Sister  Petronilla  watched  through  a  chink  in  the 
shutter;  the  Prioress  in  awful  majesty  descended 
to  the  yard,  and  required  the  truth.  The  real 
stirrup-boy,  whose  name  was  Jenkin,  said,  "This 
fellow  called  me  a  black  liar" ;  snorting  yet,  Percival 
added,  "And  that  art  thou,  my  man."  The  truth 
being  demanded.  Captain  Brazenhead  struck  in 
with  many  a  courtly  bow. 

"  Dear  Reverend  Madam,"  he  said,  "now  we  may 
well  discern  the  truth  of  the  vulgar  saw,  Blood  ivill 
out.  I  speak  not  of  this  knave's  blood,  which  is  a 
very  disgustful  topic,  not  to  be  entered  on  so  early 
in  the  day;  but  rather  of  that  secret  fotmt  of  oiir 
life  which  we  call  a  man's  Blood:  meaning  his  strain 
— that  essence,  that  quick  ichor,  that  imparted  jet, 
that  spring,  that  far -descended  well,  which  wanders 
from  the  Navel  of  the  World  down  the  Protuberance 
of  Time,  searching  for  (but  when  to  find  ?)  the  Sea 
of  Eternity.  In  truth,  Reverend  Madam,  my  neph- 
ew is  something  lowly  placed  in  your  service.  For, 
look  now,  had  he  been  where  Nature,  that  wise  parent, 
had  designed,  he  had  had  a  dagger  in  his  girdle  to 

75 


insinuate  tinder  that  other's  girdle — ah,  he  had  car- 
ried a  sword!  Then  there  had  been  no  rough  and 
tumble  of  fisticuffs,  Madam:  no,  but  a  slick-out  and 
a  slick-in,  and  a  dead  knave  to  bury.  I  hope  I 
make  my  meaning  plain.  This  lout  angered  my 
nephew  as  he  was  loyally  (0  Hkeness  to  Apollo!) 
serving  Queen  Admeta — dear  Madam,  forgive  an 
old  Latinist,  incorrigible  dog.  My  nephew  sa3's, 
'  You  lie,  knave,'  meaning  that  what  he  dared  say  of 
your  Ladyship  was  far  from  the  truth  —  no  less. 
My  nephew  ups  and  smacks  him  on  the  chops ;  head 
down,  fists  in  the  air,  lick-pot  comes  on  to  his  doom. 
One,  two — one,  two — my  nephew  lands  him  in  the 
teeth:  up  again!  down  again!  Sola!  My  nephew, 
at  the  cost  of  an  eye.  Madam,  vindicates  his  own 
lineage  and  his  dear  mistress's  nobility;  at  the  cost 
of  one  eye,  observe.  I  hope  I  explain  myself,  dear 
Reverend  Madam."  Thus  the  Captain,  while  Per- 
cival  tried  to  temper  his  breath,  and  Jenkin  tested 
tooth  after  tooth. 

The  Prioress  looked  gravely  from  one  to  another 
— regardless  alike  of  her  niece  at  the  upper  window 
and  her  household  at  the  gate — at  the  engaging 
candor  of  Captain  Brazenhead,  whose  explanatory 
hands  still  showed  her  their  palms,  at  Percival's 
flushed  cheeks  and  heaving  chest,  at  Jenkin's  pre- 
occupation with  the  ruin  of  his  teeth.  Mostly  she 
looked  at  Captain  Brazenhead — not  because  she 
liked  him  the  best;  for  Percival  was  handsome  and 
master  of  the  "  Romaunt  de  la  Rose,"  w^hereas  the 

76 


Brazcnbcad   tbe    6rcdt 

Captain  was  neither;  no,  but  because  he  was  her 
chief  justification  for  what  she  was  about  to  do.  The 
Captain  put  his  lineage  ven.'  high,  assumed  Hghtly 
certain  privileges  which  she  held  dear.  If  this  per- 
sonable, scholarly  youth  were  the  Captain's  nephew 
— and  who  proposed  to  deny  it? — then  she  was  act- 
ing Admetus  to  Apollo  indeed.  Piers  had  played 
a  gentleman's  part  without  a  gentleman's  weapons; 
he  had  a  soft  voice,  and  knew  the  "  Romaunt  de  la 
Rose."     She  must  reward  Piers — and  she  did. 

"Piers,"  she  said,  "go  into  the  house  and  have 
your  eye  dressed.  Sister  Petronilla  will  see  to  it. 
You  say  that  you  have  acted  rightly;  I  am  sure  I 
hope  50.  I  will  talk  to  you  presently.  As  for  you, 
Jenkin,  I  shall  leave  you  to  the  care  of  Dan  Cos- 
tard"— Dan  Costard  was  the  Prioress's  chaplain, 
a  fine  disciplinarian — "but  I  hope  that,  before  you 
see  him,  you  will  clean  yourself.  Captain  Brazen- 
head,  I  am  ver\-  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
timely  interposition."  The  captain  bowed.  He 
held  the  lady  in  conversation  for  some  half  an  hour, 
while  Percival  was  having  his  eye  dressed — not  by 
Sister  Petronilla.  His  own  lineage,  and  by  impli- 
cation Percival's,  lent  him  topics.  It  was  exceed- 
ingly distinguished.  Assurbanipal.  King  of  Syria, 
by  his  illicit  union  with  Blandamira.  daughter  of 
the  Prince  of  the  Kurds,  was  the  root  of  his  title. 
Those  two  valiant  knights-errant.  Sir  Partenopex 
of  Blois  and  Sir  Tyrant  the  White,  figured  later  on. 
about  the  time  of  King  Uther  Pendragon   (inex- 

7  7 


tinguishable  enemy  of  the  Brazenheads) ;  and  Duke 
Regnier  of  Genoa,  one  of  the  t^-elve  Peers  of  Charle- 
magne, was  a  collateral.     Magnificent  as  this  pedi- 
gree was,  the  Captain  frankl}^  admitted  the  irregu- 
larity of  the  tie  which  bound  the  exalted  pair  from 
whom  it  sprang ;  but  attributed  it  to  the  loose  state 
of  manners  prevailing  in  their  times,  the  darkness 
all  over  the  moral  state,  and  the  inexplicablv  tardy 
approach  of  the  Christian  dispensation.     "All  this," 
said  he,  "I  know  as  well  as  your  Ladyship,  and  as 
heartily  deplore  it.     But  who  are  we,  to  judge  the 
practices  of  ancient  kings?     My  ancestor  of  Syria, 
burdened    with    many   lawful   wives    (another   de- 
plorable custom  of  his  age),  was  hard  pressed,  what 
with  his  domestic  and  politic  engagements.     There 
may  not  have  been  a  priest  handy  in  Kurdistan  at 
the  time  he  fell  on  loving  Madam  Blandamira — it 
is  probable  that  there  was  not.     And  it  would  ill 
become  me  or  my  nephew  Thrustwood  to  impeach 
an  union  of  hearts,  of  whose   passionate   commin- 
gling we  ourselves  are  the  late,  pale  flowers.    With 
all  this,"  he  concluded,  "I  vex  your  Ladyship's  good 
ears,  that  your  Ladyship  may  see  how  ill-suited  my 
nephew  must  be  in  a  stable  jacket,  reduced  to  double 
his  two  fists  into  cudgels  for  lack  of  a  fine  sword  to 
grip.    I  make  bold  to  add,  Advance  my  nephew,  you 
do  honor  to  the  imperial  seed  of  Assurbanipal  and 
the  noble   Cif  erring)   Blandamira!"     The  Prioress, 
who  appeared  to  be  ver\^  much  impressed  with  this 
long   recital,    after   thanking   Captain   Brazenhead, 

73 


Brazcttbcdd   tbe   fir  cat 

returned  thoughtfully  to  the  house,  but  not  in  time 
to  see  the  balm  which  Mawdleyn  Touchett  was  ap- 
plying to  the  eye  of  the  Syrian  imp. 

In  this  simple  manner  Percival  Perceforest  was 
advanced  from  stirrup-groom  to  secretary,  although 
he  could  lend  no  more  testimony  than  a  fine  color 
to  his  kinsman's  account  of  his  ancestry'.  This, 
however,  he  lent  liberally,  with  a  modesty  so  be- 
coming that  the  Prioress  gave  him  a  chain  of  fine 
gold  for  his  neck.  Alresford  furnished  forth  a  suit 
of  brown  velvet;  he  now  rode  the  horse  which 
formerly  he  had  curried,  and  had  the  boy  in  his  ser- 
vice with  Vv'hose  teeth  he  had  littered  the  yard. 
Thus  the  Fortunate  Gods  seemed  to  favor  him,  or 
rather  his  fistic  ability.  His  place  was  now^  by  the  side 
of  his  mistress,  between  her  and  Mawdleyn  Touchett. 

The  day  was  still  3'oung  when  they  left  the  tow^n, 
and  had  need  to  be,  for  they  were  to  reach  Waverley 
that  night,  and  hoped  to  pass  the  heat  of  noon  at 
Alton.  Again,  as  they  went,  they  began  with  min- 
strelsy, which  Percival  (out  of  a  full  heart)  could 
pour  in  a  flood.  And  now  the  lad  was  more  daring 
than  he  had  been.  ''If  it  do  not  displease  your 
Ladyship,"  he  said,  "I  shall  sing  you  a  ballade  of 
my  own  making,  which  is  in  honor  of  Saint  Mary 
Magdalene — my  patroness,"  he  added  with  a  thank- 
ful, telltale  sigh.  Mawdleyn  Touchett,  knowing 
that  song  of  old,  looked  scared:  Sister  Petronilla 
turned  up  her  eyes ;  and  Captain  Brazenhead  thought 
it  prudent  to  change  the  conversation. 

79 


Tend   Jfdi^entures 

"The  conversion  which  I  wrought  by  means  of 
that  bhssful  Saint  is  very  dear  in  my  mind,"  he  be- 
gan. "The  Bashaw  Korouc,  I  remember,  met  me 
in  the  rocky  defiles  above  Ascalon — "  but  the 
Prioress  said,  "Sing,  Piers,  of  vSaint  Mary  Magda- 
lene," so  Percival  thrust  up  his  chin,  and  sang: 

Now,  Winter,  go  away, 
And  hide  thy  white  array, 

Gratid  Aiagdalencuf 
Thy  pelt  is  all  too  rude 
To  drape  her  melting  mood — 

DomincE  Laiis  aincencs! 

Come,  April,  thou,  with  showers, 
Bring  daffodils,  wind-flowers, 

Gratid  AlagdalencE; 
Bring  in  the  young  lamb's  bleat, 
Soft  rain,  and  gentle  heat, 

DomincB  Laiis  amosnco! 

Let  me  go  clothed  in  wet. 
Tears  be  my  carcanet, 

Gratid  Magdalencu; 
Silver  my  extern  part, 
Deep  red  about  my  heart, 

DomincB  Laus  amancE! 

Lady  of  sweet  unrest, 
Should  I  not  love  her  best, 

Gratid  JMagdalencE? 
Unquiet  go  I,  unkist. 
Her  starved  rhapsodist, 

DomincE  Laus  anicencuf 

"Thus  women  sing  of  women,  but  not  men  of 
women,"  said  Smith  the  mariner  to  his  wife.  "  Here 
we  have  for  certain  old  Brazentop's  mye.'' 

80 


Brdzenbeaa   tDe   great 

"What  hast  thou  to  do  with  that  since  I  am  with 
thee,  sweetheart?"  asked  she. 

"More  than  Saints'  love  went  to  the  making  of 
that  song,  young  gentleman,"  was  the  judgment  of 
Dan  Costard,  the  bony  old  priest  from  Ambresbury. 

"We  needs  must  love  as  we  are  able,  sir,"  Per- 
cival  replied.  "And,  for  my  part,  I  hope  Saint  Mary 
Mawdleyn  will  heed  my  crying  and  give  me  good 
comfort  in  the  end." 

"Comfort  is  the  man's  part  in  crying  matters," 
says  the  Shipman;  "and  comfort  I  have  in  my 
pocket  for  thee." 

"I  want  none  of  your  comfort,  I  thank  you, 
master  Smith,"  Percival  cried:  to  which  the  Ship- 
man  retorted  that  he  had  been  glad  enough  of  it 
once  upon  a  time.  Witlva  tale  from  Dan  Costard, 
which  has  been  told  in  another  place,  the  day  wore 
to  an  end.  They  came  out  of  Hants  into  Surrey 
by  the  sandy  way  of  Farnham,  and  rested  that 
night  within  sound  of  the  tumbling  weirs  of  Wey, 
in  the  guest-chambers  of  the  Abbot  of  Waverley. 
Percival  charmed  them  to  sleep  by  his  sweet  sing- 
ing. 
VI.  How  Percival  rose  where  Capt.  Brazenhead  fell 

Next  morning  it  might  have  seemed  that  Percival 
had  reached,  and  over-reached,  his  zenith  of  ascen- 
sion. For  the  Prioress,  rising  too  early  for  Mass 
and  walking  abroad  to  meditate,  found  him  with 
Mawdleyn  Touchett  in  a  singular  situation.  The 
girl,  in  fact,  was  seated  by  a  fish-pond  with  her 

8i 


Tend   flai>enturc$ 

feet  bare  and  still  wet  from  the  water,  and  Percival 
on  his  hands  and  knees  before  her,  ardentl}^  em- 
bracing and  kissing  those  same  wet  feet.  "Oh, 
dearest  feet!"  he  was  saying,  and  she,  "Ah,  foolish 
boy!  Ah,  foolish  boy!"  but  manifestly  thinking 
nothing  of  the  kind.  The  Prioress  coughed,  not 
loudly;  the  cuckoo,  which  happened  then  to  be 
calling  over  the  meadows,  obscured  the  discreet 
sound.  So  Percival  pursued  his  amorous  transports 
and  Mawdleyn  suffered  the  raptures  afforded  by 
such  homage  undisturbed.  "Boy  and  girl,"  mused 
the  Prioress,  "together  in  the  spring  pastures;  flow- 
ers all  about  them,  flowers  in  their  faces,  flowers 
making  sweet  their  breath.  Shall  not  flower  lean 
to  flower?  What  harm  do  they  do?  They  have 
all  life  before  them;  mine  is  rounding  its  course. 
Let  life  for  me  end  on  a  mellow  note.  This  Piers 
is  a  gentle  boy — good  blood,  I  feel  assured,  sings  in 
him;  he  hath  not  a  pipe  so  true  for  nothing.  And 
if  my  niece  played  the  mischief  with  Perceforest, 
Piers  Thrustwood  shall  wash  away  the  stain.  Pretty 
dears,  I  will  not  disturb  them;  but  I  will  question 
Captain  Brazenhead  a  little  further." 

Questioned,  the  Captain  (who  had  been  picking 
rose  campions)  lifted  his  shoulders  to  his  ears,  low- 
ered his  brows,  produced  indefinitely  his  mouth  to 
meet  them,  spread  his  palms,  then  solemnly  en- 
folded his  bosom.  He  gave  the  effect  of  an  inverted 
arch,  and  implied  deference,  noble  humility,  some 
philosophy,   and   a  friendly   alliance  of  benevolent 

82 


Brazcnhedd   tbe   Great 

neutrality.  "Madam,"  he  said,  "may  I  not  add, 
Reverend  Friend,  these  pretty  plays  of  my  en- 
amoured nephew  and  your  lovely  niece  may  end 
(why  should  I  not  say  it?)  as  they  ought  to  end.  If 
I  applaud  my  nephew's  sagacity,  may  you  not  in 
turn  approve  this  tribute  to  your  niece's  beauty?" 

"Why,"  said  the  Prioress,  "there  has  been  such 
tribute  paid  before — for  instance,  by  one  Perce- 
forest,  my  brother's  page.  Sincere  enough,  I  have 
no  doubt;  but  tribute  is  to  be  valued  by  the  worth 
of  the  tributary." 

"Have  at  you  there,  dearest  Madam,"  returned 
Captain  Brazenhead  warmly,  "have  at  you  there! 
If  we  are  considering  worth,  for  example!" 

"You  refer,  I  suppose,  to  King  Assurbanipal  and 
the  fair  Blandamira?"  said  the  Prioress. 

"I  did  refer  to  their  Majesties,  I  confess,"  replied 
the  Captain.  The  Prioress  had  no  enthusiasm  for 
this  exalted  pair.  "I  fear,"  she  said,  "that  the 
title  and  estates  have  been  alienated  long  since. 
Such  things  would  have  appealed  to  my  brother 
Sir  Simon's  understanding  before  a  fine  descent. 
As  for  lineage,  indeed,  the  Touchetts  do  pretty 
well." 

"Touchett!  Touchett!"  said  the  Captain,  "dear, 
dear,  dear!  Oh,  Touchett  is  a  good  Norman  house. 
Your  Rolf  Touchett  held  up  the  Bastard  at  Peven- 
sev,  I  believe.  Ver\^  fair!  ver\^  fair!  But  the  King 
of  Assyria,  but  the  Peer  of  Charlemagne,  Parteno- 
pex  of  Blois,  Palmerin,  Tyrant  the  White!" 

83 


Tend   Jidocnturcs 

"Captain  Brazenhead,"  said  the  Prioress,  with 
dignity  and  point,  "when  you  exalt  your  house  at 
the  expense  of  my  own,  you  compel  me  to  ask 
myself  why  the  scion  of  Partenopex  of  Blois  took 
the  trouble  to  abduct  a  stable  boy,  and  hide  him 
naked  in  a  ditch  on  Winchester  Meads?" 

"Thomas  on  the  Pavement!"  said  the  Captain 
to  himself.  "What  a  still  puddle  it  is!"  Aloud 
he  said,  "  Rack  and  pincers,  Madam,  could  not  force 
me  to  tell  you  what  that  boy  had  done,  or  how  far 
he  deserved  what  he  got?"  This  was  perfectly 
true,  and  the  Prioress  believed  it.  "I  will  not  apply 
such  insistence,"  she  said  mildly,  "for  I  agree  with 
you  that  it  would  fail." 

"Ah,  Madam,"  said  the  Captain,  taking  her  hand, 
"you  and  I  know  the  world."  This  pleased  the 
Prioress,  who  did  not  immediately  perceive  how 
little  it  met  her  argument.  "Madam,"  the  Captain 
went  on  rapidly,  "if  my  dear  blood  is  perhaps  too 
dear  to  my  barren  loins ;  if  in  default  of  lawful  issue 
— of  issue,  I  should  say  (if  I  speak  the  whole  truth), 
if  mindful  of  my  ancient  race,  if  with  a  heart  over- 
full, outvailing  head  overtaxed;  if  philogenous,  if 
stirpiferous,  puffed  with  pedigree,  prolific,  wily, 
fertile  in  shifts,  if  one  and  all  these  things  I  stand 
naked  to  the  world,  do  you  wonder,  dear  and  gentle 
lady,  that  I  run  to  cloak  myself  in  You?  If  by  the 
hand,  a  shorn  lamb,  I  lead  my  pretty  nephew;  if  I 
bid  him  curry  your  nags,  hold  your  stirrup,  batter 
soft   your   cushion,   sing   to  you,  tell   you  age-long 

84 


BrazcttDeaa   tbe   Great 

romance,  bear  your  napkin  on  his  arm,  your  liveiy" 
on  his  King-begotten  back — if  I  do  this,  why  do  I 
do  this?  Because  I  love  the  boy,  Madam,  and  be- 
cause— "  the  Captain  bared  his  head,  kneehng,  "and 
because  I  love  your  Ladyship!  Yes,  Madam,"  he 
went  on  bitterly,  "the  bloody,  crafty,  notched, 
maimed  old  soldier  is  touched  at  last!  You  will  not 
misunderstand  me,  I  know\  I  love  indeed;  but  as 
Plato,  as  the  Seven  Sages,  as  Ptolemy,  as  Hermes 
the  Threefold  Mage,  as  the  Abbot  Ammonius,  as 
Simeon  Stylites,  as  the  Venerable  Bede,  might  love. 
Spiritually,  that  is  inwardly,  in  the  skyey  places, 
under  the  shadow  of  angels'  feathers.  Is  it  mad- 
ness to  love  so?  Then  Plato  was  mad,  then  Ven- 
erable Bede  was  an  ass.  Is  it  wicked  to  love  so? 
Then  it  is  wicked  to  seek  your  shelter  for  my  neph- 
ew's nakedness.  Is  it  hopeless?  Then  I  am 
damned.  Are  you  angry?  Then  I  hope  I  am 
damned.  Are  you  content?  Then  I  sing  Gloria 
Tibi,  and  recall  memories  of  my  good  mother,  at 
whose  knee  I  learnt  to  say,  Anio  te  devote T 

The  Captain,  out  of  breath,  but  filled  instead 
with  the  soft  wind  of  ecstasy,  rapturously  kissed 
the  caught  hand  of  the  Prioress.  She,  confused, 
had  little  to  say.  Percival  and  Mawdleyn,  who 
came  upon  her  while  their  mouths  were  still  much 
too  close  together,  had  still  less  to  say.  They 
parted  as  by  a  thunder-shock  and  stood  still,  their 
heads  hanging  Hke  tired  roses.  "Children,"  said 
the  Prioress,  "where  have  you  been?" 

85 


"I  walked  in  the  meadows,  if  it  please  you, 
good  aunt,"  says  Mawdleyn,  "and  Piers  has  dried 
my  feet  for  me." 

"Do  you  understand  this  service  then,  Piers, 
as  well  as  that  of  minstrelsy?"  asked  his  mis- 
tress. 

Percival  modestly  replied  that  he  had  done  his 
best  to  understand  it,  and  so  should  always  do  with 
every  office  w^hich  might  please  her  good  ladyship. 
They  went  back  through  the  fields  to  hear  Mass 
and  break  their  fast.  The  buttercups  were  so  tall 
that  they  brushed  Mawdleyn's  knees  and  dusted 
her  with  gold — a  charming  sight,  which,  as  Captain 
Brazenhead  remarked,  made  Danae  of  the  girl, 
and  so  of  Percival  an  object  of  contempt  to  all 
high-minded  men.  "  Perceforest,  my  young  sprig," 
he  improved  the  occasion  by  saying,  "the  pace  is  too 
hot  to  last.  We  cannot  stay,  you  and  I,  at  such  a 
course.  We  must  break  away,  Percival,  lest  we 
be  broken."  Percival  was  too  flushed  with  advent- 
ure to  heed  him.  "My  cup  is  full,  sir,  shall  I  not 
drink?  For  such  a  morning  as  this  I  would  con- 
tentedly be  drubbed  every  night  by  Sir  Simon 
himself.  Oh,  her  feet!  Oh,  her  tender  hands! 
Oh,  her  heart!"  And  so  on,  and  so  on.  All  this 
filled  his  friend  with  disquiet. 

On  their  way  by  Crooksbury  to  Guildford  and 
the  White  Down,  Captain  Brazenhead  drew  from 
the  stores  of  his  garnered  experience  that  remark- 
able   tragic    tale    which    decorates    another    page; 

86 


Brazcnbcad   ibc   great 

but  interesting  as  it.  and  subsequent  comments 
upon  it,  might  prove,  great  press  of  matter  drives 
me  forward  to  Reigate.  Fear  of  congestion,  in 
like  manner,  compels  me  to  pass  over  the  noble 
country^  through  which  winds  the  Pilgrims'  Way 
— Compton  and  Littleton  Cross,  Saint  Catherine's 
Chapel  on  the  side  of  a  chalk  down,  Shalford  Mead- 
ows and  Shalford  Ferry,  Guildford  town,  and  the 
long  grass  road  which  draws  you  up  to  Saint  Mar- 
tvr's  Church  and  the  wooded  ridge.  You  shall 
picture  our  company  riding  there  among  the  boughs, 
and  guess  w^hat  opportunities  for  pilfer — stolen 
looks,  stolen  touches,  half -heard  sighs,  whispers, 
vows:  "Dearest  feet!  Dearest  feet!"  and  "Ah, 
fooHsh  boy!" — there  may  have  been;  what  earnest 
talk  also  held  the  Captain  to  the  side  of  his  Prioress, 
and  how  Master  Smith's  wife  lived  silently  upon 
the  sight  of  her  bluff  husband's  eyes.  Those 
galliard  eyes  were  much  intrigued  by  Percival's 
long  nose,  out  of  whose  shape  the  baffled  Ship- 
man  read  myster^^  a  long -lost  sweetheart  mas- 
querading as  a  lad.  Captain  Brazenhead  for  a 
terrific  rival,  himself  for  a  flouted  man.  There 
is  meat  for  a  tale  here.  But  I  am  drawn  instead 
to  Reigate,  a  red  town  on  a  hill,  where  you  might 
have  found  a  noble  Prion^  of  Austin  Canons,  with 
great  welcome  for  their  Sister  of  Ambresbun.-;  a 
large  inn  called  the  Christopher,  and  a  Uttle  beer- 
house named  The  Holy  Fish.  Thither,  under  the 
shades  of  evening,  Captain  Brazenhead  drew  young 

87 


Tend   Jidpcntures 

Percival  Perceforest,  his  nephew  by  adoption,  sadly 
against  inchnation  and  nature. 

"By  Cock,  my  bird  of  the  bough,"  said  this 
warrior,  expostulant,  "thou  hast  had  thy  fill  of 
toying  with  thy  dear.  Work  of  men  is  now  on 
hand,  battle-work,  hack-and-hew,  blood  and  bones, 
a  tragic  dish.  Am  I  to  remind  you  that  you  are 
beholden  to  me?     Never  in  this  life,  I  hope." 

"I  shall  never  forget  my  duty  to  you,  sir,"  said 
Percival  warmly,  already  ashamed  of  his  back- 
sliding. 

"Why,  that  is  as  well,"  returned  the  Captain, 
"for  I  assure  you  there  will  be  every  temptation. 
But,  in  my  opinion,  you  hold  the  iron  and  should 
strike  before  it  cools.  The  Prioress,  let  me  advise 
you,  has  discovered  (how,  I  know  not)  my  innocent 
little  device  at  Winchester;  and  although  I  was 
able  by  my  arts  to  give  her  a  check,  she  is  a  singling 
hound,  of  whom  God  alone  can  predict  (if  He  will) 
how  soon  she  will  be  nose-in-air  again.  Therefore, 
Percival,  I  say,  Time  is.  Cut  the  way  of  Holy 
Thomas,  tuck  your  sweetmeat  under  your  arm,  take 
the  road,  ride  with  me — and  ho!  for  war  and  dead 
men's  shoe-leather.     How  does  this  strike  you?" 

It  seemed  a  delightful  plan  to  the  speaker,  whose 
surprise  was  extreme  when  Percival  drew  back. 
"What,  bawcock,  art  thou  faint?"  he  cried,  gen- 
erously putting  the  best  excuse  foremost.  But 
Percival  was  not  faint.  He  was,  on  the  contrary, 
very  red;  his  eyes  were  misty,  his  lips  dry.     He  had 

88 


Brazcnbcad   the    Great 

to  use  his  tongue  to  them  before  he  could  avow  the 
shameful  truth  to  his  benefactor. 

"Oh,  sir,"  he  faltered,  after  many  a  false  start. 
"Oh,  sir,  do  not  be  angry;  but  I  cannot  deceive  my 
mistress  much  longer." 

"Hey,"  cried  the  Captain,  "why  ?  does  she  smell 
smoke,  do  you  think?" 

"No,  no,"  Percival  assured  him;  "but  my  con- 
science— " 

"Lord  of  battles,  boy!"  the  Captain  roared, 
"don't  talk  of  conscience  to  me.  We  have  our 
fortunes  to  make." 

"Let  it  be  then,"  says  Percival;  "but  I  dare 
not  add  robber}-  to  my  fibs."  The  Captain  stopped 
in  mid-street,  and  raised  his  eyebrows  as  if  he  saw 
a  snake  in  the  gutter. 

"Robbery!"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "why,  what 
are  maidens  for  if  not  to  be  robbed?" 

"Sir,  sir,  the  Reverend  Prioress  would  be  robbed 
if  I  took  Mawdleyn  away,"  says  Percival.  The 
Captain  gaped  at  him. 

"Well'"  he  said,  "why  not?  Why  are  we  here, 
knights  of  the  road  ?  Why  is  she  here  ?  Why  have 
I  told  so  many  falsehoods,  and  why  hath  she  be- 
lieved them,  hey?" 

"I  don't  think  she  hath  believed  them,  sir," 
says  Percival  humbly. 

The  Captain  scratched  his  nose."     Tush!    I  must 
be  sadly  out  then,"  he  said.     "  Do  you  think  it  was 
Tyrant  the  White  she  stuck  at?'* 
,  89 


Tond   Jiapcniurcs 

"  Sir,  I  think  rather  it  was  Blandamira  the  Kurdish 
princess.  But  Partenopex  of  Blois  seemed  to  me 
rather  a  hard  morsel." 

"Blois  is  good  enough,"  said  the  Captain ;  "it  must 
have  been  that  rascally  Tyrant.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  had  hoped  that  Blois  would  edge  me  in 
the  other,  a  great  favorite  of  mine — especially  with 
a  lady  who  could  listen  all  day  to  the  "  Romaunt  of 
the  Rose."  And  now  I  remember  that  she  seemed 
to  know  something  about  my  little  contrivance  at 
Winchester.  Well,  well,  I  am  vexed  about  this. 
But  everything  conspires  to  further  my  counsel  to 
you,  Percival.  Cut  and  run,  my  twittering  finch, 
cut  and  run." 

"Sir,"  said  Percival  doggedly,  "I  will  run 
whithersoever  you  bid  me  run;  but  I  shall  leave 
Mawdleyn  behind." 

"Then  you  tire  of  her?"  asked  the  Captain.  "I 
am  not  surprised.  The  girl  is  too  ripe  for  her  age. 
Thin  ones  pall  not  so  soon."  Percival's  little  eyes 
kindled. 

"Captain,"  he  says  hotly,  "I  love  my  Mawdleyn 
better  than  life  or  heaven;  but  I  will  never  tempt 
her  to  wickedness." 

"You  will  find  that  quite  unnecessary,"  said  the 
Captain.  Percival  despaired,  and  changed  the  con- 
versation by  asking  abruptly,  What  was  the  duty 
about  to  be  put  upon  him,  which  he  was  quite  ready 
to  perform  ? 

"Why,"  says  the   Captain,  "it  is  this.     We  are 

90 


Brazettbeaa   tbe   6reat 

about  to  visit  an  exalted  friend  of  mine,  here  in 
this  town  darkly  disguised  for  the  exact  purpose  of 
meeting  with  me.  He  is  a  gentleman  (at  present) 
of  greater  hope  than  fortune,  and  goes — oh,  hush!" 
he  sank  his  voice  to  a  rushing  whisper  w^hich  could 
have  been  heard  across  the  street,  "and  goes  —  ah, 
be  mum!  by  the  name  of  CADE.  Master  John 
Cade,  Jack  Cade,  Jack  Mend-all;  so  those  who  love 
him  call  him.  But,  look  you  here,  his  name  is 
Mortimer,  seed  of  the  loins  of  King  Edward  the 
Third,  twin-apple  on  the  stalk  which  holds  King 
Edward  the  Fourth — " 

"King  Edward  the — oh,  sir!"  says  Percival  in 
a  tremble,  "why,  this  is  treason!" 

"Treason  it  is,"  replied  the  Captain,  chuckling; 
"damnable  treason,  and  misprision  of  treason;  work 
for  Tower  Hill,  block-w^ork,  chopping-work,  my 
Ganymede." 

"Is  it  this  that  you  would  have  me  do?"  Percival 
asks;  and  the  Captain,  taking  his  arm,  says — " It  is! 
It  is!" 

They  stroll  on  in  silence.  Presently  Percival 
asks  again,  How  he  can  serve  Mr.  Cade  ?  The  Cap- 
tain became  very  frank. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "you  must  know  that  my 
friend  Mortimer  (call  him  Cade,  if  you  will),  al- 
though of  extremely  noble  descent,  is  in  this  pass, 
that  he  can  neither  read  nor  write.  Other  gentle- 
men of  birth  and  lineage  are  no  better  off.  We 
write  our  names  in  blood,  ha!     And  here  are  our 

91 


Tend   Jidpcnturcs 

stiles,  ha!"     He  patted  his  hip.     "Now  Jack  Morti- 
mer," he  went  on,  "corresponds  with  the  D e  of 

B y,    the    D e    of   Y k,   my   L d   of 

M h,  the  K g  of  F e" — these  names  he  in- 
dicated in  atrocious  whispers — "and  hitherto  hath 
done  his  best  to  cope  therewithal  by  help  of  an  old 
monk  of  Bury,  a  Psalter,  and  the  Gesta  Roma'norum. 
The  result  hath  been  that  Jack's  correspondence  is  in 
a  devil  of  a  mess.  Moreover,  the  monk  is  recently 
dead  of  a  surfeit.  You,  my  lamb,  having  the 
Latin,  the  French,  the  Burgundian,  the  Italian,  on 
the  tip  of  your  red  tongue,  you  I  have  designed  to 
be  Jack  Mortimer's  secretary,  from  the  moment 
when  I  first  saw  you,  slim  and  tearful  like  Niobus 
the  Great,  in  Winton  Minster.  You  say  that  you 
have  deceived  the  Prioress:  me  you  could  not  de- 
ceive. I  saw  tongues  playing  about  your  ingenuous 
front;  everything  you  have  done  since  has  but  con- 
firmed my  opinion.  Now,  I  need  not  tell  a  youth  of 
your  parts  that  I  open  out  a  golden  road  for  you 
to  travel.  Jack  will  go  far.  He  is  ready  at  all 
points.  His  men  line  the  roads;  London  stirs 
for  him;  Kent  calls  him  King.  He  will  give  thee 
a  manor  and  a  title,  for  thou  shalt  be  his  right  hand. 
Sir  Percival  Perceforest,  knight;  Percival,  Baron 
Perceforest;  my  lord  Viscount  Perceforest;  our 
trusty  and  well-beloved  Cousin  and  councillor  Per- 
cival, by  the  Grace  of  Jack,  Earl  of Where  the 

devil  do  you  come  from,   my  dear?" 
"From  Gloucester,  sir,"  says  Percival. 

92 


Brazcnbcad   tbc   6rcdt 

"  I  perceive  that  you  speak  the  truth,  for  you  call  it 
Glorster.   Then  you  shall  be  Earl  of  Gloucester,  when 

my  good  Lord  R d  is  P e  of  W s."    Thus 

comfortably,  as  the  Captain  mused  aloud  and  poor 
Percival  found  nothing  to  say,  they  reached  the 
shuttered  green  door  which  announced  by  a  sign 
on  a  string  that  it  was  that  of  The  Holy  Fish.  There 
hung  the  fish,  with  a  hole  in  the  shoulder  where  St. 
Peter's  thumb  had  held  it. 

"I  must  disguise  myself,  boy,"  says  the  Captain. 
"Mum's  the  word  now;  moonlight  work  begins. 
You  carry  innocence  all  over  your  face,  but  I  have 
a  plaguily  fiy-by-night  appearance,  and  must  by 
all  means  conceal  it." 

His  method  of  disguise  was  admirably  simple, 
for  he  merely  threw  his  riding-cloak  over  his  head. 
Thus  he  could  neither  see  nor  be  seen,  neither 
deceive  nor  be  deceived.  This  done,  he  made 
Percival  take  his  hand,  saying,  "Lead  on,  noble 
colleague."  Percival  followed  his  nose  into  the 
doorway  of  The  Holy  Fish. 

A  black-haired,  stout,  blotch-faced  man  sat  in 
dirty  shirt  and  breeches  at  a  tressel-board,  eating 
bacon  from  a  skewer.  A  jack  of  beer  was  at  his 
elbow,  onions  reposed  in  a  basin  of  vinegar  beside 
him;  all  about  his  feet  lay  letters,  parchm.ents, 
sealed  writs  in  a  heap. 

His  companions  were  a  miller  in  his  cups  and 
a  Carmelite.  Percival  stood  modestly  in  the  open 
doorway,   still   holding   by  the   hand  the  muffled, 

93 


Tend    Jldt^cnturcs 

the  motionless  Captain  Brazenhead.  The  eater  of 
bacon  frowned  upon  the  pair. 

"What  do  you  want,  knave?"  then  said  Master 
Cade,  for  this  was  he,  "and  who  is  your  mawmet 
in  a  shroud?"  Captain  Brazenhead  threw  off  his 
disguise  with  a  flourish.  "God  help  this  realm, 
Jack,  if  I  deceive  even  thee!"  he  said  with  fervor. 
Master  Cade  resumed  his  bacon ;  the  Carmelite  had 
never  stopped  eating  onions;  the  miller  went  to 
sleep. 

Between  bites  the  great  revolutionary  asked 
of  his  friend,  Who  was  this  sprig  of  jessamy? 
The  Captain  introduced  his  dearest  nephew-by- 
adoption.  "He  hath  a  long  nose,"  said  Master 
Cade,  "too  long  for  my  taste.  We  are  sworn 
foes  of  long  noses  in  Kent,  as  thou  knowest.  What 
are  we  to  do  with  him,  Sol?" 

"He  was  born  under  Sagittarius  the  Archer," 
says  the  Captain,  "and  is  therefore  lucky.  Start 
not  at  his  nose:  I  tell  you  he  is  a  penman.  I  have 
trained  him  for  thy  secretary',  Jack!" 

Master  Cade  said  Humph!  to  this;  but  of  Percival 
he  asked,  "Where  gat  Sagittarius,  your  father,  you 
of  the  body  of  your  mother?" 

"Sir,"  replied  Percival,  "I  fancy  that  Captain 
Brazenhead  spoke  tropically,  by  a  figure.  My 
father's  name  is  John  Perceforest;  he  is  a  clothier 
of  Gloucester." 

"You  said  he  was  an  archer,  Sol,"  said  Master  Cade. 

"I  spoke  exuberantly,  as  this  lad  says,  and  in 

94 


Brazenbead   the   Great 

the  tropics,"  the  Captain  admitted.  "Leave  his 
father  and  his  nose  alone,  Jack." 

"Stop  that  cackle,"  cried  Master  Cade,  who 
seemed  excited,  "and  let  me  get  on  with  the  boy. 
Now,  boy,  I  have  the  truth  of  thy  father  at  last. 
Is  that  nose  of  thine  his  or  thy  mother's?" 

"  My  mother,  sir,  had  a  longish  nose." 

"Losh!"  said  Master  Cade.  "Now,  who  was 
your  mother?" 

"  My  mother  is  dead,  sir." 

"I  asked  you  not  what  she  is!"  Master  Cade 
was  very  testy.  "Plague!  will  you  prevaricate 
with  me?     I  asked  you  who  she  was." 

Percival  answered,  "She  was  ver}^  well  descend- 
ed, sir,  as  I  have  been  told.  Her  name  before  wed- 
lock was  Jane  Fiennes." 

Master  Cade  grew  livid.  "Lord  of  Might!  And 
with  a  nose  like  that!"  He  paused  to  breathe; 
presently  asked,  "And  whence  came  your  Jane 
Fiennes?" 

"She  came  from  Kent,  sir,"  says  Percival.  Cade 
threw  up  his  hands  and  brought  thera  down  with  a 
crash  on  the  table.  The  miller  rolled  on  to  the 
fioor  and  the  Carmelite  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

"If  I  knew  not  his  nose  among  a  hundred!  Jane 
Fiennes's  son,  Jane  Fiennes's  son!"  Master  Cade 
was  much  perturbed.  "Do  you  know  who  you 
are,  young  gentleman?"  Thus  he  accosted  Per- 
cival, who  answered,  "An  honest  lad,  sir,  if  it 
please  you." 

95 


Tend   JIdocnturcs 

"Honest!"  cries  Master  Cade,  "honest!  you  are 
better  than  that,  I  hope.  King  Melchior,  I'll  tell 
you  what  you  are.  You  are  nephew  of  Lord  Say, 
that's  what  you  are!  Nephew  and  apparent  heir, 
that's  what  you  are !  And  you  hope  yourself  honest ! 
Why,  sir,  you  may  be  a  peer  of  this  realm.  No  need 
for  honesty  then,  I  hope.  Honest,  quoth  he!"  He 
changed  his  tune  abruptly,  and  turned  to  the  com- 
placent Captain  Brazenhead.  "Didst  thou  lay  this 
trap  for  me,  old  gallows?"  asked  his  chief.  "I'll 
not  deny  it.  Jack,"  said  the  Captain.  "  It  will  serve 
my  turn,"  says  Cade,  "or  may  do.  When  we  have 
cracked  the  old  thief's  skull  at  Sevenoaks,  we'll  set 
up  this  slip  of  w^illow  in  his  place,  and  have  a  lord 
on  our  side.     Do  you  smell?     Are  you  fly?" 

The  Captain  smelt,  and  was  very  fly.  "Let  me 
talk  to  my  honored  young  friend,"  he  said,  and  drew 
Percival  apart. 

"Now,  Percival,"  he  began,  "it  appears  that  you 
are  in  a  fair  way.  Your  mother  was  Lord  Say's 
sister,  and  none  the  worse  in  that  her  brother  is  an 
old  cut-throat,  ill-beseeming  dog.  You  are  heir  to 
the  wicked  man  your  uncle.  Now  I  propose  to  you 
an  honorable  game,  fitting  to  your  name,  degree, 
expectation,  and  parts.  You  shall  stand  in  with 
the  noble  Mortimer  and  me.  We  raise  all  Kent,  at- 
tack Sevenoaks,  slay  your  uncle  at  leisure.  You 
come  into  title  and  estates,  marry  your  little  Touch- 
ett  (if  she  still  content  you),  and  reward  us  after 
your  own  generous  motions.     Do  vou  see  your  way 

96 


BrazcnDcdd   tbc    great 

clear?  I  protest,"  cried  the  delighted  Captain,  em- 
bracing his  young  friend  warmly,  "I  protest  that 
is  as  workman-like  a  little  cabinet  of  villany  as  I 
have  ever  compassed!  What  is  more,  it  will  be  of 
real  service  to  you." 

But  Percival  did  not  see  his  way  to  the  murder 
of  his  uncle,  and  told  Captain  Brazenhead  as  much 
with  tears  of  shame  in  his  eyes.  ''Dear  sir,"  he 
said,  "I  know  not  what  you  will  think  of  me — un- 
grateful, unworthy  of  your  continual  favors,  I  owe 
you  all  my  earthly  happiness;  but  do  not  ask  me 
to  kill  my  mother's  brother.  I  will  die  for  vou,  or 
at  your  hands,  if  you  choose;  but  I  cannot  dabble 
in  my  own  blood.  Slay  me  now,  Captain  Brazen- 
head,  where  I  kneel" — and  kneel  he  did — "and  let 
Percival  die  blessing  the  hand  that  fells  him."  The 
Captain,  profoundly  touched,  raised  him  up  and 
kissed  him.  "  Your  sentiments,  mv  Percival,  do  vou 
honor,"  he  said,  "though  I  deplore  their  effect  upon 
my  plans.  I  must  consider  what  will  be  best  to 
do  now,  for  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know  offhand." 

Master  Cade  had  a  way  of  his  own.  "If  the 
young  gentleman  can't  help  us,  Sol,"  says  he,  "we 
had  better  help  ourselves.  We  should  put  a  winger 
into  him  at  once,  I  believe.  He  must  never  leave 
Reigate  alive."  The  Captain  shook  his  head.  "No, 
no,  my  Trojan,"  he  replied,  "that  is  a  short-sighted 
way  to  work.  You  may  trust  Mr.  Perceforest,  I  am 
sure."  He  added  in  a  low  voice,  "A  friendly  Lord 
Say  will  be  better  than  two  dead  ones,  you  fool;  let 

97 


Tend   Jldoentures 

the  boy  go."  Turning  to  Percival,  he  kissed  hin: 
again,  saying,  "Remember  your  old  Brazenhead  in 
after  years;  for  now  I  must  bid  you  farewell.  If  I 
have  served  you,  I  am  glad.  I  love  you,  my  boy, 
and  shall  pray  for  you  every  day.  Note  this  also. 
You  shall  do  wisely  to  force  your  pilgrims  on  their 
way  with  all  speed.  Kent  will  be  on  fire  within  a 
week.  At  Canterbury  you  shall  see  either  myself  or 
my  ghost.     Farewell." 

"Farewell,    dear    sir,"    said    Percival    brokenly. 
They   parted    affectionately,    hke   father   and    son; 
Percival  went  out  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
VII.  Incidit  in  Scyllam,  cupiens  vitare  Charybdim 

The  Captain  gone,  not  without  comment  and  dis- 
cussion, in  which  Percival's  explanation  played  a 
poor  part,  our  young  man  found  himself  involved 
in  a  new  difficulty.  Smith  the  Shipman  located 
his  long  nose.  "Gloucester  knew  that  nose  of 
thine,"  he  declared,  "as  I  do  verily  believe.  But 
her  name  was  not  Thrustwood — no,  nor  nothing 
like  Thrustwood."  Percival  did  not  deny  that  he 
had  been  born  in  Gloucester.  "I  would  like  to  see 
thee  deny  it,"  said  the  Shipman.  "I  would  swear 
to  thy  long  nose  and  button  mouth  before  the  Lord 
Mayor  of  London.  And  how  comest  thou,"  he 
asked  reproachfully,  "how  comest  thou  trampling 
after  a  wicked  old  tosspot  mercenary  on  pretended 
pilgrimage,  all  in  a  page's  breeches  ?  Fie  upon  such 
unwholesome  dealing!"  Percival  grew  very  angry, 
as  well  he  might ;  hereupon  the  Shipman  turned  his 

98 


BrazcnDcad   the   6rcat 

gall  to  tenderness.  "Child,  I  loved  thee  once; 
pledges  we  exchanged,  we  split  a  coin.  I  vow^ed  I'd 
never  forget  thee,  upon  my  soul."  "I  vow  that  I 
have  never  seen  you  before,  sir,  in  all  my  life!"  cried 
Percival,  hotly,  "nor  your  good  mistress  either!" 
"Jealousy,"  quoth  the  Shipman,  "jealousy  is  the 
mother  of  lies.  What  is  my  wife  to  thee  or  to  me, 
who  cry  back  old  dead  days?"  But  here,  happily, 
that  same  lady  came  out  to  show  what  she  was  to 
her  lord;  "Tease  not  the  boy,  honey,  tease  me!" 
Thus  she  wooed  him,  and  left  Percival  to  his  other 
anxieties.  These  were  to  get  his  people  well  on  the 
road  before  it  w^as  taken  by  the  grim  Captain  Cade, 
and  to  ponder  how  he  could  save  at  once  his  mis- 
tress's skin,  his  own  skin,  and  the  skin  of  his  exalted 
uncle. 

By  ten  of  the  clock — so  successful  was  he — the 
whole  train  was  in  the  Vale  of  Darent.  They  baited 
at  Otford  under  the  shadow  of  the  Archbishop's 
house,  whence,  if  Percival  could  have  known  it,  he 
might  have  seen  the  threatened  turrets  of  Knole 
high  on  the  wooded  hill  of  Sevenoaks.  From  that 
place  a  very  agreeable  tale  from  the  Prioress  took 
them  peacefully  to  Wrotham,  where  they  stayed  out 
the  heat  of  the  day.  If  Mawdleyn  had  to  complain 
that  her  lover  was  cold  she  did  him  an  injustice. 
He  was  consumed  with  fear  on  her  account;  the 
country  was  ominously  quiet,  with  no  pilgrim-booths 
in  Wrotham  town,  no  folk  in  the  inns,  few  houses 
that  had  not  shutters  over  the  windows.     They  had 

99 


Tend   Jidpcn  lures 

halted  at  a  smithy  a  few  miles  out  of  the  town: 
"You  must  limp  it  on  three  feet,  Master,"  was  the 
answer  Percival  got.  "There  is  not  a  scrap  of  iron 
short  of  Maidstone,  I  do  believe."  "What  have 
you  done  with  your  iron.  Master?"  asks  Percival. 
"Ah,"  says  the  farrier,  "that  is  telhng."  A  bad 
answer:  but  worse  was  to  come. 

After  dinner,  going  by  the  well-worn  lane  that 
lies  snug  under  the  bosom  of  the  hill,  they  reached 
a  little  place  called  Trottesclive,  some  three  miles 
from  Wrotham.  Here  were  an  inn,  a  village-green, 
a  spreading  sycamore  with  a  sign-post,  a  stocks,  and 
a  pound.  Here  also  was  an  armed  assembly  of 
peasants,  a  priest  at  their  head,  marching  the  op- 
posite way,  with  ribald  songs  about  Jack  Nape  and 
Harry  our  King.  Now  Jack  Nape  was  the  name  they 
chose  to  give  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  and  the  scythes, 
bills,  falchions,  glaives,  and  other  weapons  they  flour- 
ished, boded  no  good  to  Harry  their  King.  There 
was  much  confusion  here:  the  men-at-arms  of  the 
Prioress  at  once  became  none,  by  throwing  down 
their  pikes  and  falling  upon  their  knees.  Half  a 
dozen  rascals  roared  "Down  with  the  fat  minchin!" 
half  a  dozen  others  snatched  up  the  discarded  pikes. 
Dan  Costard  showed  his  mettle.  "We  are  Saint 
Thomas's  pilgrims,  you  rogues,"  cried  he.  "Touch 
us  in  jeopardy  of  Saint  Thomas  ";  and  Percival,  re- 
senting extremely  their  reference  to  the  Prioress's 
condition  in  this  world,  drew  his  dagger. 

The  Shipman  leapt  off  his  horse  and  caught  the 

lOO 


Bra  zcnDcad   tbc   6rcdt 

poor  young  man  round  the  waist.  "Vex  not  thy 
pretty  hands  with  a  man's  tools,  my  fair  chuck," 
he  said  coaxingly.  "What  if  thy  disguise  should 
undisguise  thee?" 

"Avoid  me,  by  heaven,  you  red  fool!"  cries  Per- 
cival  in  a  fury.     "What  have  you  to  do  with  me?" 

"Love,  my  hidden  treasure!"  said  Master  Smith, 
"Love  is  my  goad.  I  know  what  I  know."  Per- 
cival  flamed  up. 

"Get  you  gone^  look  after  3^our  wife,  Master,  and 
don't  talk  your  balderdash  to  me,"  he  said  with 
his  teeth  together.  The  Shipman  replied  that  tem- 
pest suited  a  pretty  lass  better  than  a  flat  calm;  so 
women  were  not  like  the  sea.  Percival  stared  open- 
mouthed  at  him.  "What  is  your  meaning?"  he 
said  aghast.  Master  Smith  might  have  told  him, 
had  he  not  been  recalled  to  his  wife's  side  by  her 
shrill  complaining.  Once  more,  therefore,  that  thin 
woman  set  Percival  free.  He  turned  to  the  fray; 
but  this  had  been  composed  by  a  colloquy  between 
Dan  Costard  and  the  priest,  the  leader  of  the  rabble. 

The  peasants,  it  seemed,  were  marching  to  Seven- 
oaks,  to  meet  (it  was  obvious  to  Percival)  Captain 
Brazenhead  and  Captain  Cade.  The  youth  could  not 
see  without  emotion  so  many  scythes  turned  to  the 
dismemberment  of  his  uncle,  my  Lord  Say.  He 
felt  the  call  of  blood  as  well  as  the  admonitions  of 
piety.  "Strange!"  he  thought.  "Yesterday  I  did 
not  know  that  his  lordship  was  my  uncle,  and  to- 
day I  must  risk  my  life  to  save  his.     But  it  is  so!" 

lOI 


Tend   Jiapcntures 

He  therefore  accosted  the  rebel  priest  in  the  gentlest 
manner  he  could,  inquiring  whether  he  was  lead- 
ing his  forces  against  any  person  of  consequence. 
"There  is  a  worthy  man  dwelling  by  Sevenoaks," 
he  added,  "my  uncle,  whose  estate,  though  it  should 
fall  to  me  by  the  fact,  I  w^ould  not  willingly  have 
disturbed."  The  priest,  having  looked  him  up  and 
down,  said,  "Bless  your  innocence,  young  man, 
we  shall  never  hurt  any  uncle  of  yours."  Percival 
could  afford  to  say,  "I  wish  I  could  believe  it." 
"But,"  he  went  on,  "I  fear  the  worst  from  what  I 
know  of  Master  Mortimer,  your  friend." 

"Ha!"  says  the  priest,  "so  you  know  something." 
Says  Percival,  "Yes,  I  do."  The  priest  rubbed  his 
chin. 

"And  did  he  intend  any  mischief  against  your 
uncle,  young  gentleman?" 

"I  do  verily  think  so,"  says  Percival. 

"Then,"  said  the  other,  "either  you  are  not  what 
you  appear,  or  Master  Mortimer's  net  hath  a  small 
mesh."     The  Shipman  cut  in  again. 

"H  he  is  what  he  appears  to  you,"  he  said  strong- 
ly, "then  I  am  a  nun," 

"And  if  he  is  not  what  he  appears  to  you  and  to 
me,"  cried  the  Scrivener,  very  much  excited,  "then 
I  was  neither  deaf  nor  blind  at  Winchester,  and  do 
know  his  name,  and  can  shrewdly  guess  at  that  of 
his  uncle." 

"My  reverend,"  said  Percival,  who  thought  it 
safer  to  take  no  notice  of  this  interruption,  "I  may 

I02 


Bra^ettbcdd   tbe   6rcat 

not  tell  you  my  uncle's  name,  lest  you  should  do  a 
mischief  to  those  I  serve  here  as  faithfully  as  I  can. 
Alack!  I  have  too  many  interests  to  serve,  I  think. 
But  I  will  ask  you  to  take  a  message  for  me  to  a 
hidden   nobleman  who  passes  under  the  name  of 

B d"   (he  sank  his  voice  in  uttering  the  word 

of  power),  "Captain  S n  B d.  Are  you  ac- 
quainted with  him?"  The  priest  scratched  his 
head. 

"Is  it  a  wondrous  hairy  man?  Has  he  a  forest 
on  his  nose,  hairs  on  his  lip  and  chin,  and  fierce  hairs 
which  push  upwards  on  his  throat  like  ivy  on  a 
stock?  Is  it  a  loud  talker,  speaking  of  things  which 
he  knows  little  about,  and  the  loudlier  speaking 
the  less  he  knoweth?  Is  he  a  kidnapper  and  a 
horse  -  stealer  ?  And  doth  he  affect  the  use  of 
tongues?" 

"In  many  things  you  have  rightly  drawn  the 
man,  but  in  the  accusation  of  various  crimes  I  hope 
you  are  wrong  towards  him,"  Percival  replied  with 
guilty  knowledge  painting  his  ingenuous  face.  "At 
least  I  suppose  him  to  be  the  hairiest  man  in  this 
realm.  Tell  him  from  Piers,  That  if  he  loves  yet 
the  youth  he  loved  once,  he  will  do  nothing  to  has- 
ten the  inheritance  nor  his  own  reward."  The 
priest  winked  one  eye  as  he  said : 

"Your  message  is  dark.  But  shall  I  not  essay 
it?" 

"Hush,  O  hush!"  Percival  whispered,  finger  on 
lip;  "you  will  undo  me." 

103 


Tona   jidocnttircs 

"Tush,  my  lord,"  quoth  the  priest,  "all  shall  be 
well."  He  left  Percival  in  a  cold  sweat;  and  hav- 
ing made  him  a  profound  reverence,  drew  off  his 
people,  who  went  with  songs  and  cheering  for  Jack 
Mend-all.  Percival  resumed  his  escort  with  a  heavy 
heart,  and  in  due  time  had  all  safe  under  the  shadow 
of  the  famous  Rood  of  Boxley.  He  could  not  fail 
to  observe  the  added  respect  with  which  the  Scrive- 
ner treated  him,  and  was  minded  to  turn  that 
honest  man's  skill  to  his  own  advantage  before  it 
might  be  too  late. 

For  although  he  knelt  before  the  sacred  and 
wonder-working  Image  by  the  side  of  his  tender 
Mawdleyn,  yet  the  Image  cast  its  spells  in  vain. 
He  drew  no  comfortable  assurance  out  of  the  rolling 
eyes  and  wagging  head  which  made  the  vulgar  ad- 
mire ;  but  the  place  held  an  awe  for  him  apart  from 
all  that;  and  the  conviction  settled  down  with  a 
weight  of  lead  in  his  heart  that  now  or  on  the  mor- 
row he  must  unbosom  himself  to  the  Prioress  of 
Ambresbury.  And  was  that  to  be  the  end  of  his 
fond  adventure?  Was  he  to  be  hounded  out  of 
the  Prioress's  livery  as  Sir  Simon  had  hounded  him 
out  of  his?  Sir  Simon  had  whipped  him  for  pil- 
fering; might  not  her  Reverence  do  as  much  for 
fibbing?  Percival's  was  that  girlish  nature  that 
clings  the  faster  for  stripes:  he  knew  that  the  end 
was  not  to  be  then,  for  Mawdleyn  was  just  such 
another  as  he,  and  when  girl's  nature  loves  girl's 
nature  the  bond  will  never  be  broke.     Was  such  a 

104 


love   as   his   to   be   strangled   by   a   confessed   fib? 
Could  he  abandon  his  dear,  soft,  loving  maid  because 
his    name   was    Perceforest   and   not   Thrustwood? 
He  saw  Mawdleyn's  long  lashes  brush  her  cheek, 
saw  her  folded  hands,  her  lovely  meekness;  he  felt 
lifted  up.     Ah,  for  her  sake  he  had  had  thwackings 
on  his  back,  for  her  sake  had  lain  in  ditches  o'  nights, 
had  begged  crusts  at  farmers'  doors,  had  sung  dis- 
honest  songs   to   thieves   and   their   drabs  in   tap- 
rooms   at   midnight.     For   her   sake   he   had   been 
Captain  Brazenhead's  nephew,  scion  of  the  race  of 
Assurbanipal  and  Tyrant  the  White,  he  had  hob- 
nobbed with  treason,  been  misconceived  by  Smith 
the  mariner,  loosened  one  groom's  teeth,  indirectly 
drowned  another,  gained  a  black  eye,  and  deceived 
a  noble  lady  who  was  so  benevolent  as  to  love  him. 
"Sweet  Madonna!"  he  cried,  "how  I  have  deceived 
mankind!     Sir  Simon  Touchett  thinks  I  am  a  com- 
mon footboy,  whereas  I  am  the  heir  to  a  lord;  Cap- 
tain Brazenhead  thinks  I  am  a  rebel,  and  Captain 
Cade  thinks  I  am  not;  the  Prioress  thinks  me  Piers 
Thrustwood;   Mawdleyn    must    think   me    a   Har — 
which  I  am;  and  Master  Smith  believes  me  a  Glo'ster 
girl,   discreditably   attached   to   (and   forsaken  by) 
Captain    Brazenhead.     Alone    in    my    world,    the 
Scrivener  knows  me  for  Percival  Perceforest,   the 
heir  of  Lord  Say;  and  I  am  bound  to  admit  that 
him  too  I   should  have  deceived  if  I  had  thought 
him  worth  the  while.     Is  there  nobody,   then,   to 
whom  I  have  not  fibbed  or  wished  to  have  fibbed? 
«  los 


Tend   Jfdpcnfurcs 

Yes:  I  had  forgotten  Dan  Costard.  That  good 
man  is  under  no  misconception  as  to  my  real  per- 
son, because  he  has  never  troubled  his  head  about 
me.  To  him  I  will  impart  my  secret.  If  I  am  to 
receive  the  Sacrament  at  Canterbury,  I  must  con- 
fess to-morrow.  He  shall  shrive  me."  He  con- 
cluded tearfully  in  prayer,  and  so  remained  until 
the  Prioress  rose  from  her  knees  and  took  Mawdleyn 
to  bed.  Full  of  resolutions  for  the  morrow,  Per- 
cival  also  went  to  bed. 

But  Captain  Smith  drew  the  Scrivener  apart  by 
the  parlor  fire  and  said:  "Tell  me  the  name  of 
that  young  spitfire  of  the  Prioress's." 

"His  name,"  said  the  Scrivener,  "on  his  own 
confession,  mind  you,  is  Perceforest." 

The  Shipman  clapped  a  hand  to  his  thigh  with 
a  noise  like  a  carter's  whip. 

"Perceforest!"  he  thundered.  "Perceforest  of 
Gloucester!  I  remember  the  lass  to  a  hair — long- 
nosed,  thin,  snuggling  girl — spoke  softly  and  kept 
her  eyes  cast  down.  She  had  a  trick  of  biting  her 
finger  I  recall,  very  captivating  to  youth.  Some- 
times it  would  be  the  corner  of  her  apron — better, 
as  being  less  fanciful.  Why,  man  alive,  she  used 
to  lean  against  the  door-post  in  Hare  Lane  by  the 
hour  together,  and  all  the  evening  through,  listen- 
ing to  my  protestations  and  tales  of  the  sea — and 
be  at  that  fingering  game  all  the  while!  Sakes  of 
me,  if  I  remember  that  long-nosed  wench  or  not. 
And   her  name  was   Perceforest — now,   now,   now, 

106 


Brazen bcaa   tbe   Great 

was  it  Moll  Perceforest  ?  or  Nance  ?  It  was  Nance. 
It  was  never  Nance  ?  What  did  she  say  her  name 
was,  old  parchment?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  my 
good  friend,"  said  the  Scrivener,  "and  my  name  is 
Corbet,  descended  from  Madam  Alys,  Countess 
Dowager  of  Salisbury."  The  Captain  clawed  the 
Scrivener  by  the  knee. 

"Her  name  was  Jenny,"  he  shouted,  "Jenny 
Perceforest,  christened  Jane!  Eh,  by  the  Beacon 
of  our  Faith,  I'll  remind  her  of  that  i'  the  morn! 
Now,"  he  pondered,  "how  did  old  Brazenguts  get 
hold  of  such  a  good  girl  as  that?  And  why  did 
she  traipse  after  him  across  all  those  shires  in  a 
pair  of  cloth  breeches  ?  Is  it  pure  devotion  to 
Thomas?  Is  it  want  of  heart  in  the  man?  It  is, 
by  heaven!  For  why?  He  has  cut  and  run. 
Oh,  I'll  have  it  out  o'  Jenny  i'  the  morn." 

"You  shall  do  what  you  please,"  replied  the 
Scrivener,  tired  of  all  this,  but  I  shall  go  to  bed." 

"Put  me  on  to  a  dexterous  way,"  said  Captain 
Smith  earnestly;  "give  me  my  sailing  orders,  and 
I  steer  dead  into  the  heart  of  Jane." 

"She,  as  you  call  him,  will  deny  you  point-blank, 
as  I  take  it,"  was  the  Scrivener's  judgment. 

"I'll  wake  her  up  with  a  parable,"  said  Captain 
Smith.  "I'll  tell  her  a  tale  to-morrow  will  open 
her  eyes." 

"You  had  much  better  leave  that  to  me,"  said 
the    Scrivener.     "I    know   more    tales    of    wonder 

107 


Tond   Jidpcnturcs 

and  romance  than  you  know  creeks  and  bays  of 
England." 

"Then  keep  your  tales  of  wonder  and  romance  as  I 
keep  the  creeks  and  bays  of  England,"  said  Captain 
Smith;  "and  that  is  until  I  want  'em  to  run  to. 
This  is  my  venture." 

"It  should  also  be  your  wife's  venture,  if  she  is 
the  fond  woman  I  think  her,"  the  Scrivener  ob- 
served, with  one  eye  more  open  than  the  other. 

"My  wife,"  replied  Captain  Smith,  "knows  her 
duty,  I  believe;  and  if  you  come  to  that,  where's 
the  harm  of  old  acquaintance  ?  Why,  I  knew  Jenny 
Perceforest  before  my  wife  knew  the  Christian 
Dispensation.  My  wife  was  a  heathen  Norse 
when  I  was  playing  hunt-the-slipper  wi'  Jane. 
And  if  a  man  that  hath  travelled  the  lumpy  seas 
may  not  have  a  bit  o'  fun  wi'  a  long-nosed  girl  he 
hath  known  in — " 

The  Scrivener  had  gone  to  bed. 
VII.  How  Percival  got  more  than  he  deserved 

After  the  conversation  of  the  preceding  night, 
the  Shipman  became  reproachful  in  his  tone  to 
Percival.  He  disregarded  the  young  man's  pro- 
tests that  he  was  not  his  own  sister,  that  she  was 
a  mother  of  five  at  Moreton-in-Marsh,  and  nearly 
twice  his  age.  "If  so  be,  Jenny,"  he  said,  "that 
you  are  mother  of  five  lawful  imps,  the  greater  the 
shame  of  your  cropped  head.  To  dance  attendance 
upon  an  Italianate  cut-throat,  an  ambusher,  a 
blood-pudding  man,  with  husband  and  babes  cry- 

io8 


BrazenDcdd   Ibc   Great 

ing  at  home — fie,  Jenny,  fie!  But  you  and  I,  my 
girl,  shall  be  friends  yet.  You  have  not  seen  the 
last  of  Dick  Smith."  Percival  despaired;  but  in 
point  of  fact  his  persecutor  seemed  to  give  himself 
the  lie,  for  he  left  the  Prioress's  party  at  Charing 
and  hastened  on  to  Canterbury  direct,  leaving  his 
wife  behind  him. 

They  reached  Harbledown  by  early  afternoon, 
and  stayed  there  for  a  few  hours,  hard  by  the 
lazar-house  of  Saint  Nicholas.  It  was  held  im- 
proper to  enter  Canterbury  unshriven;  there  was 
hard  work  before  Dan  Costard  before  any  of  them 
dared  so  much  as  look  for  the  gold  Michael  on 
Bell  Harry's  top.  The  lepers  came  clattering  out, 
the  good  brothers  who  served  them  took  the  horses, 
the  Prioress  with  her  company  went  into  the  Chapel, 
to  touch  the  relic  and  prepare  for  confession.  Per- 
cival's  hour  was  come.  Captain  Brazenhead  was 
murdering  his  uncle,  and  he  was  about  to  murder 
his  own  happiness.  What  a  position  for  a  boy  in 
love! 

But  it  seems  that  not  he  alone  had  a  weighty 
conscience  to  discharge.  Consider  these  facts  in 
order : 

I.  The  Prioress  of  Ambresbury  confessed  that 
Captain  Brazenhead  loved  her  after  the  precepts  of 
Plato  and  the  Venerable  Bede;  also  that  she  loved 
Piers  Thrustwood  more  as  a  son  than  the  nephew 
he  was  plainly  desirous  of  becoming. 

II.  Master  Smith's  wife  confessed  that  she  had 

109 


Totid    Hdi^etiturcs 

spied  upon  her  husband  on  many  late  occasions, 
but  especially  on  the  previous  night.  She  said  that 
Piers  Thrustwood  was,  in  reality,  one  Jenny  Perce- 
forest,  who  had  run  away  with  Captain  Brazenhead, 
and  been  deserted  by  him;  and  believed  that  her 
husband  was  intending  to  renew  an  old  acquaint- 
ance with  the  young  woman.  She  owned  that  she 
was  not  to  be  trusted  if  he  did.  As  she  spoke 
mostly  in  sobs  and  the  Norwegian  language,  Dan 
Costard  was  occasionally  at  a  loss. 

III.  Mawdleyn  Touchett  confessed  that  she  loved 
Piers  Thrustwood,  who  was  not  what  he  seemed. 

IV.  Sister  Petronilla  confessed  that  Captain 
Brazenhead  had  made  her  a  letter  -  bearer  to 
Mawdleyn  Touchett.  She  did  not  know  what  the 
letter  contained  except  by  hearsay.  She  had  taken 
back  an  answer.  When  the  Prioress  told  her  to 
apply  cold  meat  to  Piers  Thrustwood's  eye,  she 
gave  over  her  office  to  Mawdleyn  Touchett.  She 
did  not  know  what  Mawdleyn  Touchett  applied, 
except  that  it  was  not  cold  meat. 

V.  Percival  Perceforest  admitted  that  this  was 
his  name,  that  he  was  and  had  been  in  love  with 
Mawdleyn  Touchett  both  before  and  after  his  beat- 
ing; that  he  was  a  deceiver  of  the  Prioress,  no 
nephew  of  Captain  Brazenhead,  but  nephew  (on 
the  other  hand)  of  my  Lord  Say — 

"What!"    cried    Dan   Costard,    stopping   him    at 
this  point,  "you  are  not  Piers  Thrustwood?" 
"No,  father,"  says  Percival. 

no 


Bra  zcnDcaa   the   Great 

"Then,"  says  the  priest,  "the  Prioress  does  not 
love  you  as  a  son,  rather  than  the  nephew  you  are 
plainly  desirous  of  becoming." 

"Alack,  but  I  do  desire  it,"  Percival  owned. 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  replied  Dan  Costard; 
"one  thing  at  a  time.  The  lady  Prioress  loves 
Piers  Thrustwood  as  a  son;  but  if  there  is  no  such 
person  she  can  have  no  such  love."  Her  absolu- 
tion, therefore,  is  easy." 

"Then  she  loves  not  me,  father,"  said  Percival, 
sorrowfully,  "for  I  have  just  told  you  I  am  not 
Piers  Thrustwood  at  all." 

"But  what  do  you  say  about  Master  Smith's 
wife,"  the  priest  continued,  "and  her  ugly  tale  about 
Captain  Brazenhead?" 

Percival  felt  this  to  be  a  comparatively  easy 
matter.  "I  say,  my  reverend,  that  my  name  is 
Perceforest.  and  own  that  I  have  a  sister  Jenny; 
but  I  deny  that  I  am  she." 

"You  are  sure'"  asked  Dan  Costard.  "Very 
well,  then.  Smith's  wife  can  be  shriven.  Now 
there  is  Mistress  Mawdleyn,  loving  Piers  Thrust- 
wood, who  is  not  what  he  seems.  What  have 
you  to  say?" 

"Oh,  sir,  oh,  sir,"  Percival  urged,  with  pleading 
looks,  "Mawdleyn  loves  me,  and  I  love  Mawdleyn. 
And  for  that  reason  I  was  beaten  by  Sir  Simon, 
and  came  creeping  back;  and  for  that  reason  I 
told  fibs,  and  for  that  reason  I  confess  them.  Fur- 
ther, I  say,  that  if  I  cannot  have  her,  I  must  die." 

Ill 


Tend   }fdpcnture$ 

"Well,"  says  Dan  Costard,  hand  on  chin,  "and 
why  not?  It  will  make  everything  simple,  it 
seems  to  me." 

"But  if  I  die,  I  cannot  have  Mawdleyn,  good 
father." 

"Tush!"  cried  Father  Costard,  "we  are  beat- 
ing the  air.  Get  your  Lord  Say  to  plead  your 
cause." 

"Alas,  dear  father,  I  fear  the  worst  for  him," 
says  Percival  mournfully. 

"Then  you  can  plead  your  own  cause,  my  boy," 
replied  the  priest  briskly;  "for  then  you  will  be 
his  lordship.  But  I  must  insist  upon  your  making 
a  clean  breast  of  it  to  my  lady ;  this  3^ou  shall  promise 
me  before  I  shrive  you." 

"Sir,"  said  Percival,  "it  is  in  the  making.  I  do 
but  wait  to  ask  Master  Corbet,  the  Scrivener,  to 
inscribe  it  fair  upon  a  sheepskin." 

"Very  good,"  said  Dan  Costard,  and  shrived 
him.  Percival  spent  the  rest  of  his  time  dictating 
his  lowly  confession  to  the  Scrivener,  but  what 
with  the  interruptions  of  his  own  remorseful  tears 
and  the  emendations  of  that  worthy  man  he  had 
got  no  further  than  the  words,   "The  humble  cry 

of  the  heart  of  P ,"  when  the  summons  to  the 

road  came  from  the  unconscious  intended  recipient. 
Percival  was  called  to  do  his  squire's  duty,  and 
worse,  he  was  bid  to  tell  a  tale.  This  he  did,  as 
all  the  world  may  know  if  it  care,  with  direct 
application  to  his  case,  showing  how  misadventure 

112 


Brazcnbcad   tbe   Great 

may  be  piled  on  misadventure,  and  misconception 
on  misconception  in  affairs  of  the  heart,  until  (as 
in  his  tale)  a  young  man  named  Galeotto  may  wed 
a  young  man  named  Eugenio,  and  Camilla  (a 
young  woman),  a  young  woman,  Estella,  all  for 
the  sake  of  love.  It  is  not  by  any  means  certain 
that  this  entirely  met  his  own  position,  as  he  no 
doubt  intended  that  it  should;  what  is  beyond 
controversy  is  that  it  did  point  out  the  dangerous 
state  of  his  relations  with  the  Shipman,  and  very 
much  affected  the  Shipman's  true  wife. 

So  much  was  this  the  case  that  when  the  tale  was 
ended,  which  was  after  supper  in  the  parlor  of  the 
Prior  of  Christchurch,  Mistress  Gundrith  had  a 
fit  of  coughing  and  weeping  intermixed,  and  retired, 
as  she  said,  to  bed.  But  it  is  now  known  that 
she  did  not  go  thither.  The  intentions  also  of 
Percival  were  widely  different  from  his  perform- 
ances. His  resolution  had  been  to  charm  the 
Prioress  first  by  his  romancing  and  to  melt  her 
afterwards  by  his  tears.  He  charmed  her,  it  is 
true,  but  his  tears  fell  on  stony  ground.  For  they 
fell  upon  the  bosom  of  Master  Richard  Smith, 
who,  having  thrown  a  handkerchief  over  his  head, 
had  picked  him  up  in  the  quadrangle  (where  the 
lad  had  gone  to  compose  his  mind),  pelted  with 
him  in  the  dark  down  Mercery  Lane,  and  now 
held  him  in  the  cellar  of  a  little  beer-house,  com- 
forting him  with  flagons  and  protesting  against  all 
his  rage  that  they  should  be  married  in  the  mom 

113 


fond   Jldt^cnfures 

and  sail  with  the  first  tide.  It  was  then,  and  not 
till  then,  that  PerciVal  found  out  what  he  owed  to 
the  great  Captain  Brazenhead.  For  he — but  I 
anticipate. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  there  came  a 
flying  messenger  into  Canterbury  bearing  letters 
for  the  Prioress  of  Ambresbury's  grace.  These 
were  from  her  brother  Sir  Simon  Touchett  and 
thus  conceived: 

Loving  Sister — After  my  hearty  commendations,  these 
let  you  wite  that  you  must  by  all  means  do  honor  to  one 
Master  Perceforest  who  I  believe  is  with  you.  At  the 
least  I  traced  him  as  far  as  Winton,  which  I  know  he  left 
in  your  company.  Fail  me  not  herein  as  you  tender  my 
welfare.  And  the  Blessed  Trinity  preserve  you  in  His 
keeping,  and  give  you  all  your  desires.  From  your  brother, 
Si.  Touchett,  Kt.  Postscriptum.  I  pray  you,  Sister,  be 
temperate  with  my  daughter  Mawdleyn.  And  if  the  said 
Mr.  Perceforest  will  take  her  with  a  fair  manor  of  forty 
pound  for  dowry,  let  it  be  so  o'  God's  name.  I  fear  I  have 
no  more  to  bestow,  for  times  are  hard,  and  the  crops  very 
light  this  year,  owing  to  the  dry  weather.  I  pray  God 
amend  it.  If  the  said  Mr.  Perceforest  shows  signs  of  grudge 
against  me  for  misadventure — and  for  what  I  must  call 
shameful  mishandling — in  the  past,  tell  him,  I  pray  you, 
that  I  will  meet  him  hereafter  on  my  old  knees.  Item,  I 
will  give  two  manors  of  eighty  pound  clear  with  my  daugh- 
ter Mawdleyn.  I  beseech  God  to  grant  you  a  fair  reward 
for  your  pilgrimage.  Your  man  Costard  will  marry  my 
daughter  to  the  said  Mr.  Perceforest.  Item,  item,  I  will 
give  a  fair  thirty-pound  land  with  the  said  two  manors. 

S.  T.,  Kt. 

A  letter  for  the  "right  worshipful  and  his  lov- 
ing friend  Mr.  Percival  Perceforest"  was  enclosed; 
and  the  Prioress,  after  reading  this  also,  sent  for 

114 


Brazcnbeaa   tbc   ereat 

Piers  Thrustwood.  At  this  moment  Mawdleyn's 
soft  cheek  was  against  her  own,  and  Mawdleyn's 
soft  heart  discerned  to  be  beating  in  fine  disorder. 
"  Dear  Madam,  dear  aunt,"  said  this  melting  beauty, 
"I  beseech  you  be  a  good  aunt  to  poor  Mawdleyn. 
All  he  did  was  for  love." 

"I  think  so  indeed,  child,"  said  the  Prioress; 
"and  no  oSence  either,  it  seems.  But  I  ask  in 
vain,  why  was  the  poor  young  man  whipped  for 
what  he  is  now  to  be  coaxed  back  to  with  forty- 
pound  lands?" 

"He  will  need  no  coaxing,  dear  Madam,"  Mawd- 
levn  assured  her.  But  it  appeared  that  he  would 
need  much  coaxing.  He  could  not  be  found.  He 
was  not  in  his  bed,  had  not  been  in  bed,  had  not  been 
seen  since  bedtime.  Neither  had  the  Shipman's 
wife  been  to  bed.  "Is  it  possible,"  thought  the 
Prioress,  "is  it  humanly  possible  that  my  brother 
knows  more  than  I  do?  Is  it  humanly  possible 
that  Piers,  or  Percival,  is  running  after  Smith's 
wife?" 

Far  from  that,  Smith's  wife  was  at  this  moment 
running  after  Percival.  Percival  Perceforest  in  his 
shirt,  breeches,  and  one  of  his  stocldngs  was  flying 
for  his  life  through  the  streets  of  Canterbur}\ 
Close  at  his  heels  came  Smith's  wife,  behind  her  a 
delighted  pack  of  citizens,  crv^ing,  "Hold,  thief, 
hold!  Take  the  rogue  ahve!  Rope,  rope,  rope!" 
and  other  like  words.  How  long  the  chase  had 
held,   I   say  not;  I  know  that  it  could  have  held 

115 


Tond   Jldpcnturcs 

little  longer.  Percival's  breath  was  gone,  his  eyes 
were  dim,  his  feet  cut,  his  shirt  and  breeches  barely 
acquainted.  Bricks,  mud,  sticks,  stones  whizzed 
by  his  ears;  "Peg  him  down!  Peg  him  down!" 
were  ominous  sounds  of  preparation.  Percival  set 
his  back  against  a  wall  and  prepared  to  die  hard. 
On  came  the  mob;  another  minute  had  been  his 
last.  As  if  rushing  upon  what  he  could  not  avoid, 
Percival  gave  a  sudden  glad  cry  and  sprang  out 
towards  his  enemies.  But  as  he  did  so,  these 
parted  from  behind — whether  by  express  command 
or  intuitive  sense,  can  never  be  trulv  known. 
Percival  ran  through  his  late  pursuers  and  fell 
panting  into  the  arms  of  a  Cardinal  who,  properly 
attended  by  his  foot-page,  was  advancing  down  the 
street.  The  amazed  inhabitants  saw  this  Prince 
of  the  Church  enfold  and  kiss  a  young  man  who 
was  believed  to  have  murdered  a  sailor  in  Mercery 
Lane.  It  need  not  be  said  that  His  Eminence,  who 
was  inordinately  hairy,  and  fierce  in  the  eye,  was 
Captain  Brazenhead  in  disguise. 

His  first  care  was  to  get  rid  of  the  ragtails  who 
threatened  the  peace.  "Avoid  good  people,"  was 
his  sublime  assurance;  "he  whom  you  seek  is  not 
here.  He  is  elsewhere."  His  air,  his  hair,  his  hat, 
his  cassock  and  tippet  of  flame-red,  did  their  work. 
The  men  of  Canterbury  doffed  their  bonnets  to 
His  Eminence  and  suffered  him  to  lead  away  their 
murderer  whither  he  would.  Mistress  Smith  raised 
shrill    cries,    but    to    no    purpose.     When    she    de- 

ii6 


BrazctiDead   tbe   6redt 

nounced  Percival,  they  referred  her  to  the  Cardinal. 
When  she  scoffed  at  His  Eminence,  they  referred 
her  to  the  devil,  and  so  left  her.  His  Eminence 
led  his  young  friend  into  the  great  church,  and  pro- 
ducing a  bundle  from  under  his  arm,  said  with  great 
apparatus  of  whispering  and  tapping  of  the  nose, 
"Take  this  token,  Percival,  of  my  travail  for  you." 
Percival  unfolded  the  head  of  my  Lord  Say :  deeply 
shocked,  he  gazed  at  it. 

"Let  me  not  raise  false  hopes  in  you,  dear  Per- 
cival," said  Captain  Brazenhead.  "Your  late  au- 
gust kinsman  was  not  beheaded,  as  this  gift  would 
seem  to  imply,  and  as  his  rank  surely  w^arranted. 
In  fact,  the  ground  of  my  quarrel  with  Captain 
Cade  (Mortimer,  as  he  foolishly  calls  himself)  was 
this,  should  my  Lord  Say  be  hanged  or  sworded? 
I  named  the  sword,  but  Jack  would  have  the  rope. 
I  exposed  the  infamy  of  this:  Jack  strung  him  up. 
We  quarrelled  irrevocably.  Jack  led  his  men  tow- 
ards London  and  certain  ruin.  May  Jack  go  in 
peace!  I  believe  he  is  a  fool,  and  know  him  to  be 
without  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman.  A  ridiculous, 
yet  fortunate,  adventure  brings  me  to  your  rescue. 
You  remember  the  Prioress's  knave  whom  I  laid  in 
a  drain  on  your  account?  This  boy  (and  I  speak 
to  his  credit),  filled  with  revengeful  feelings,  fol- 
lowed me  all  the  way,  and  at  Kemsing  denounced 
me  to  a  justice  as  his  ravisher  and  the  thief  of  his 
clothes.  Unwo^th3^  you  say?  Far  from  that,  it 
is  for  that  reason  I  have  advanced  him.     I  was 

117 


Tond   Jldccnturcs 

forced  to  disguise  myself  as  you  see.  But  what  a 
plight  I  find  you  in!  Where  is  your  jacket  ?  Where 
are  your  shoes?  Where  are  your  points?  What 
have  you  been  about?     No  scandal,  I  hope?" 

"Scandall"  cried  Percival,  growing  very  red,  "I 
say  it  was  scandalous;  but  I  served  him  well  for  it." 

"Meaning  whom?"  asked  the  Captain;  and  Per- 
cival told  him,  "The  Shipman  Smith,  who  would 
have  it  that  I  was  my  sister  Jane,  and  carried  me 
off  with  a  towel  over  my  head." 

"The  man  is  a  silly  fool,  as  I  always  knew,"  said 
Captain  Brazenhead;  "but  it  must  have  been  simple 
to  satisfy  him." 

"Simple  or  not,"  says  Percival,  "I  did  it.  For  I 
cut  his  face  open  with  a  grindstone." 

"You  did  very  well,  bawcock,  faiUng  a  foot  and 
a  half  of  Toledo,"  cried  the  Captain.  "  By  my  faith, 
I  know  not  how  a  gentleman  of  your  birth  and 
parts  could  have  done  better.  But  we  have  more 
solemn  business  on  hand.  You  and  I  will  go  and 
declare  ourselves  to  the  Lady  Prioress.  I  fancy 
your  affair — if  you  are  still  in  the  mind  for  it — will 
go  better  henceforward." 

Percival  grew  suddenly  grave.  "Alas,  dear  sir," 
he  said,  "but  I  was  carried  off  from  my  mistress 
before  I  could  confess  to  her  the  wicked  truth." 

"You  will  find  the  truth  not  half  so  wicked  as 
you  suppose,  my  lord,"  said  the  Captain.  "Come, 
I  will  conduct  your  lordship." 

"But,  sir,  consider  the  danger  to  yourself,"  Per- 

ii8 


cival  faltered — but,  even  so,  sensibly  changing  as- 
pect as  the  new  address  warmed  him. 

"Myself,  ha?"  the  Captain  snorted.  "I  am  suffi- 
ciently protected  by  my  disguise,  I  hope.  I  war- 
rant you  there  will  be  no  trouble  on  that  score. 
Moreover,  that  boy  who  denounced  me  so  took  my 
fancy  for  the  fact  that  I  have  engaged  him  as  my 
foot-page.  Have  no  fear  for  me,  but  come,  my  dear 
lord,  come." 

The  magnificent  Cardinal  Brazenhead,  every  inch 
a  prelate  and  a  prince,  took  the  arm  of  Percival, 
who  was  far  from  looking  what  he  actually  was; 
and  caused  the  hall  porter  of  the  Prion.^  to  announce 
the  Lord  Cardinal  of  Magnopolis  and  my  Lord 
Say,  to  wait  upon  the  Prioress  of  Ambresbury.  I 
should  fail  to  find  words  proper  to  express  the  sur- 
prise of  the  venerable  lady.  But  Captain  Brazen- 
head  by  no  means  failed.  He  was  at  once  the 
courtier,  the  Churchman,  and  the  deferential  lover 
(in  Plato's  vein).  The  moment  he  was  face  to 
face  with  the  lady,  he  advanced  towards  her,  took 
and  kissed  her  hand.  His  page  in  attendance  held 
his  tasselled  hat — crimson  on  a  black  silk  cushion. 

"At  last,  dear  lady,"  he  said,  with  a  happy  sigh, 
"at  last  my  tiresome  disguises  are  over!  I  can 
greet  your  Ladyship  without  fatigue  and  without 
embarrassment. ' ' 

"Oh,  my  lord!  Oh,  sir — !"  the  Prioress  began — 
but  he  put  up  a  deprecating  hand. 

"Titles  of  ceremony  between  us!"  he  said,  with 

119 


Tona   Jfdocntures 

gentle  amazement.  "Lady,  you  and  I  know  too 
much  evil  of  the  world  to  affect  the  world's  cozen- 
ing caresses.  We,  if  you  take  my  meaning,  have 
suffered,  and  labored,  ah,  and  loved,  too  long  on 
earth  to  feel  any  solace  out  of  things  like  these. 
But — "  he  went  on,  waving  the  shamefaced  Per- 
cival  into  the  discussion — "but  with  the  young  it  is 
otherwise.  An  eyas  falcon,  dear  Madam,  may  take 
pride  in  her  opening  plumage,  I  suppose.  Here, 
Madam,  is  this  noble  youth,  whom  you  knew  as 
Piers  Thrustwood,  and  I  as  my  dearest  nephew,  Mr. 
Percival  Perceforest,  now  (by  the  unhappy  death 
of  his  kinsman)  my  lord  Baron  of  Say ;  here.  Madam, 
is  he  for  whose  advantage  I  adventured  as  a  Cap- 
tain of  men's  bodies,  where  men's  souls,  perchance, 
are  more  under  my  care.  His  dear  kinsman  is  un- 
happily slain  by  rebels;  and  he  (barely  escaping 
with  his  own  young  golden  life)  stands  before  you 
— ashamed  of  the  deceit  forced  upon  him,  glorying 
in  the  stripes  wherewith  your  brother  anointed  his 
princely  back,  and  burning  (if  I  may  speak  of  such 
matters)  for  the  tardy  bliss  he  has  dared  such  hard- 
ships to  win.  My  dear  lord  and  nephew" —  he 
turned  to  Percival — "salute  my  friend  the  Prioress 
of  Ambresbury."  The  young  Lord  Say  knelt  down 
before  her. 

"Oh,  Madam,  believe  me — "  he  began  to  stam- 
mer; but  the  Prioress  raised  him,  and  gave  him  a 
kiss. 

"My   sweet  lord,   my   dear   Percival,"   she   said, 

I20 


Brazcnbcaa   tbc   6rcdt 

"you  shall  believe  that  we  love  you  very  much. 
Come.     My  charge  awaits  you." 

She  shook  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into  her 
chamber,  where  Mawdleyn  Touchett  was  picking 
her  hem  to  pieces. 

"Master,"  said  the  Cardinal's  new  page,  "if  my 
mistress  casts  an  eye  on  me  she'll  have  me  horsed 
for  bathing  at  Win  ton." 

The  Captain  looked  him  over.  "My  lad,"  said 
he,  "the  Prioress  is  my  very  good  friend.  More- 
over, you  must  have  a  rind  like  a  porpoise  to  stand 
the  May  frosts  on  your  naked  skin.  I  shall  make 
something  of  you  yet.  Go,  boy,  purvey  me  beer 
from  the  Rainbow.     I  do  furiously  thirst." 

It  is  proper  to  add  that  the  Prioress,  Dan  Cos- 
tard, Percival  Lord  Say,  and  Mistress  Mawdleyn 
Touchett  paid  their  homage  at  the  Shrine  of  Saint 
Thomas;  and  that  Captain  Brazenhead  was  ap- 
pointed Steward  of  the  Manors  of  Westerham, 
Knockholt,  and  Froghole,  with  a  reversion  of  the 
Office  of  High  BailifE  of  the  Lordship  of  Sevenoaks. 

History  knows  no  more  of  Master  Richard  Smith, 
Mariner  of  Kingston-upon-Hull,  nor  of  Gundrith 
his  wife,  native  of  Norway. 


Buondeltnonte's  Saga 


Buonaeltnontc's  Saga 


AS  I  do  not  think  the  worse  of  a  tale  because  it 
i  may  be  true,  so  it  is  no  detriment  to  it  in  my 
eyes  that  it  has  been  pieced  together  from  a  hun- 
dred scraps — remnants,  shavings,  bits  of  brick  and 
plaster,    a   sentence   torn   from    a   letter,    a   sharp 
saying  passed  into  a  proverb,  the  battered  stump 
of   an   old   tower,   the  memory    (not  gone  yet)    of 
wicked    old    hatreds    or    high    young    loves.     One 
may  assume,  I  take  it,   a  certain  decorum  in  the 
process.     The    raking    and    scraping,    the    groping 
and    poring     over     rubbish-heaps     and     rag-bags, 
should  be  done  in  decent  darkness,  where  a  man, 
in  the   company   of  his   shaded   candle,   may  shed 
tears  without   a  shameful   face:   the  work  has  its 
poignancy;  the  refashioned  thing  should  not  lack 
it  either.     What  my   own  may  want  in  this  last 
particular  I  am  not  bound  to  discuss  beforehand. 
I  confess  to  the  raking  and  scraping,  to  the  shift- 
ing -  and  piecing  together,   and  will  own  to  a  wet 
eye   or   so,   if   you   press   me.     No   more.     I   hope 
that  I  have  got  the  dust  away,  and  that  the  old 

125 


Totta   Jldvctttures 

0       bones  arc  none  the  worse  for  my  galvanism.     They 
wore  great  flesh  once. 

There  were  three  men  living  in  Florence,  before 
the  days  of  Dante  and  his  friend  Giotto,  who, 
without  much  previous  liking  or  disliking,  were 
drawn  together  and  then  torn  apart.  Buondel- 
monte  de'  Buondelmonti  was  the  name  of  one 
of  them,  a  gentleman  who  had  a  tower  in  the  city, 
not  far  from  the  river  wall.  Ffe  came  from  the 
west  country,  from  the  Val  di  Greve,  where  he 
had  a  hill  on  the  edge  of  the  valley,  and  a  castle 
upon  it,  a  strong  place  with  a  wall  all  about,  and 
houses  for  his  servants  and  laborers  and  slaves 
inside  the  wall.  Here  in  the  old  days  his  grand- 
father and  great-grandfather  had  lived  and  taken 
toll  from  all  who  journeyed  by  this  high-road  to 
the  sea;  a  thing  which  vexed  the  Florentines. 
So  they  attacked  them  on  all  sides,  drove  them 
into  a  corner,  and  made  a  bargain  with  them  that 
they  should  become  citizens  of  Florence,  and  have 
privileges  there  instead  of  toll.  A  house  called 
Degli  Uberti  had  a  chief  hand  in  this.  It  was 
Buondehnonte's  grandfather  who  came  in,  or  rather 
had  started  to  come.  But  the  Ema  was  in  flood 
when  he  tried  to  ford  it,  and  he,  a  very  stout  man, 
was  drowned.  People  told  each  other  this  was 
a  fate  upon  him,  and  advised  his  son  to  turn  back; 
but  the  younger  man  said:  "Not  Fate,  but  Fat 
has   done   this.     For   if    Ema   had    been    thin   my 

126 


Buondclntonte's   Saga 

father  would  have  walked  over,  or  if  my  father 
had  been  thin  he  would  have  swum  over.  I  shall 
go  on;  and  it  may  be  that  the  Uberti  will  be  sorry 
one  of  these  days."  By  which  he  meant  that 
they,  in  a  sense,  had  drowned  his  father.  He 
went  into  Florence,  therefore,  and  married  Cune- 
gonda  Giandonati,  and  begat  this  Buondelmonte, 
and  Ranieri,  and  some  others,  and  then  died. 
Our  man,  now  head  of  the  house,  was  rich,  young, 
a  good  fighter;  a  pleasant,  handsome  man,  very 
splendid  in  his  tastes.  His  blood  could  not  be 
bettered,  he  was  chief  of  all  the  kindreds  who 
dwelt  in  his  country  and  had  their  towers  near  by 
his  in  the  street  by  the  river  wall.  Blood  relations 
were  the  Giandonati,  the  Gianfighazzi,  and  Im- 
portuni;  other  houses,  like  the  Gualterotti,  were 
allied  by  friendship  or  common  interest.  All  of 
these  looked  to  him  to  play  a  great  part,  and  to 
that  end,  to  marr}^;  but  he  had  women  enough  at 
his  command,  and  set  no  store  by  marriage.  He 
was  a  great  lover,  they  say;  few  women  could 
look  at  him  without  looking  again,  and  few  twice 
without  a  stir  in  the  side.  He  had  a  very  easy  way 
with  them  and  their  belongings:  to  pinch  a  girl's 
cheek,  or  kiss  her  on  the  chin,  as  if  to  say,  "You 
are  worth  so  much  to  me,  or  so  much."  They  called 
him  the  Butterfly  for  this  sipping  trick  of  his. 

Of  a  different  stamp  altogether  was  Schiatta 
degli  Uberti — chief  of  that  very  house  which  had 
brought   in    Buondelmonte's — a   big,    strong   man, 

127 


Tend    Jiapcniurcs 

very  hairy,  with  arms  too  long  for  his  height,  which 
was  nothing  to  boast  of.  His  descent — if  you 
may  beheve  all  you  hear — was  the  noblest  in  the 
city,  and  his  power  great;  but  not  so  great  that 
it  might  not  grow  greater,  as  he  thought.  He 
said  that  Catiline,  the  enemy  of  Rome,  was  his 
ancestor,  and  that,  far  from  being  descended  from 
the  Emperor's  house,  the  Emperor  was  derived 
from  some  by-blow  of  his  own.  This  was  the 
sort  of  talk  he  held.  He  had  two  great  castles  in 
Florence,  in  that  quarter  of  the  city  which  Ues 
behind  and  below  the  Badia  of  the  Marquess  Ugo; 
and  all  his  kinsmen  and  friends  lived  near  about 
him  and  assembled  at  his  board.  They  filled  the 
long  tables  of  the  hall,  all  told;  for  he  had  a  great 
family  of  his  own  by  his  first  and  second  wives — 
sons,  strong  and  warlike  young  men,  and  grave 
daughters,  all  hungry  for  power  like  their  father, 
and  proud,  and  quickly  affronted.  These  were  the 
names  of  his  kindred:  the  Amidei,  who  lived  north 
of  him  in  the  same  quarter  of  San  Piero  Scheraggio ; 
the  Fifanti  and  Infangati,  close  by;  the  Lamberti, 
whose  tower  was  west  of  the  Old  Market,  and  of 
whom  Mosca  de'  Lamberti,  the  one-eyed  man,  was 
chief.  He  allowed  also  the  claim  of  the  Capon- 
sacchi  to  be  relatives  of  his,  because  they  came  from 
Fiesole,  whence  the  wife  of  Catiline's  son  Uberto  had 
been  taken.  "For,"  as  Schiatta  used  to  say,  "if 
your  people,  Caponsacchi,  were  as  good  as  you  say 
they  were,  they  must  have  been  the  best  in  Fiesole; 

128 


Buondelmonte's   $aga 

and  I  am  sure  my  ancestor  Uberto  would  have  been 
content  with  nothing  short  of  the  best.  So  you 
may  come  in."  Caponsacchi  had  to  be  content  with 
that;  and  under  some  similar  tossed  favor  the 
Gangalandi  could  confess  him  chief  and  lord:  the 
Gangalandi,  a  great  stock,  who  bore  the  arms  of  the 
Marquess  Ugo,  and  accounted  themselves  some- 
thing! 

Then  there  was  a  man  living  below  Saint  Re- 
parata's  church,  named  Forese  Donati,  a  vexed, 
rather  unhappy  man.  He  had  made  a  good  marriage, 
with  Gualdrada,  the  daughter  of  Guido  Bellincione 
de'  Berti;  but  for  all  that  his  affairs  had  not  pros- 
pered, and  he  was  very  poor.  He  brooded  over 
this  a  good  deal;  for  he  said  that  his  family  was 
longer  in  Florence  than  any  other  save  his  wife's, 
and  that  while  the  Uberti  were  hiding  from  justice 
behind  rocks  on  the  hills,  the  Donati  were  making 
the  Florentine  laws  and  feeding  the  Fifanti  with 
scrap-meat  from  their  tables.  On  his  wife's  side 
he  was  akin  to  the  Counts  Guidi  of  the  Upper  Arno ; 
but  this  served  him  little,  since  most  of  them  took 
up  the  cry  of  the  Uberti  and  helped  them  to  do  what 
thc}^  chose  with  the  government  of  Florence.  They 
were  all  Emperor's  men,  while  Forese  had  chosen 
for  the  Pope.  He  had  three  sons — Buonaccorso 
was  one  of  them — lean,  needy,  sulky  men,  and 
two  daughters,  Capuccia  and  Piccarda,  fine  slim 
girls,  the  younger  exceedingly  beautiful.  On  the 
day  that  this  Piccarda  was  ten  years  old,  Gualdrada 

129 


Tond   Jiaoenturcs 

said  to  her  husband:  "  Forese,  this  is  a  peach  to 
keep  on  the  wall,  but  veiled,  lest  the  wasps  get  at 
it.  If  you  take  my  advice  you  will  lock  up  this 
girl  and  feed  her  on  the  best.  And  you  will  put  by 
all  that  you  can  spare  in  a  good  coffer  with  double 
keys,  to  be  her  dowry.  The  likes  of  this  girl  are 
not  born  in  Florence  every  day;  no,  nor  every 
ten  years.  She  is  all  honey  and  wine  in  a  lovely 
case.  You  will  be  able  to  pick  and  choose  where 
you  will  for  a  husband;  and  it  will  be  a  strange 
thing  if  you  don't  better  our  fortunes."  Forese 
said  that  she  could  do  as  she  pleased;  there  was 
time  enough.  "Never  too  early  to  begin,"  said 
Gualdrada;  "as  the  ass  knows,  so  he  bites  car- 
rots." 

From  that  day  forward  there  was  nothing  she 
did  not  do  for  her  Piccarda.  She  washed  her  every 
day  and  dressed  her  hair;  she  gave  her  rich  and 
fine  food,  with  cream  and  butter,  wine  and  the 
best  fruits  that  could  be  had.  She  caused  her  to 
take  the  air  at  a  time  when  nobody  was  about,  and 
to  sleep  at  noon  and  early  in  the  night.  So  care- 
ful was  she  in  what  she  was  doing  that  no  man  in 
Florence  knew  of  Piccarda.  The  elder  girl,  Capuc- 
cia,  went  openly  to  mass  with  her  mother;  but  when 
Piccarda  went  she  was  dressed  like  a  servant  and 
covered  up  in  a  hood.  For  confessor  she  chose  a 
discreet  and  reverend  priest,  canon  of  Santa  Re- 
parata  and  cousin  of  her  own,  and  knowing  that  she 
could  rely  upon  his  counsel,  made  him  partner  in 

130 


Buonacltnontc's   Saga 

her  designs.  Piccarda  grew  up  to  be  a  still  girl, 
excessively  beautiful.  She  had  dark-brown  hair 
which  reached  the  joints  of  her  knees;  her  head  was 
small,  her  face  oval  in  shape,  composed  and  stead- 
fast in  expression.  Her  eyes  were  long,  narrow, 
and  gray,  the  lashes  of  them  black;  she  had  a  very 
red  mouth  and  a  smooth,  white  throat.  For  all 
this,  she  looked  more  like  a  woman  than  a  maiden. 
She  was  not  taller  than  a  fine  girl  should  be,  had 
very  little  to  say ;  and  whether  she  could  love  or  not, 
was  not  to  be  determined,  since  no  breath  of  that 
mystery  had  ever  been  suffered  near  her,  nor  was 
any  light  talk  allowed  in  her  presence.  She  saw  no 
men  except  her  father  and  the  priest;  even  her 
brothers  were  not  allowed  with  her. 

Whatever  Gualdrada  could  save,  by  pinching  or 
shifting,  was  put  into  a  coffer  and  kept  under  two 
locks.  One  way  and  another  she  got  a  good  deal 
together.  Forese  and  his  sons  traded  or  went 
to  the  wars;  their  return  was  welcome  to  Gual- 
drada according  as  they  came  heavy  or  light  to 
house.  And  she  kept  her  ears  wide,  and  looked 
askance  all  ways  for  her  great  aUiance.  She  had 
heard  about  Buondelmonte,  and  thought  he  might 
do  for  lack  of  better.  But  the  next  thing  she 
heard  about  him  put  her  in  a  fury. 

Forese  Donati  met  Buondelmonte  outside  the 
gate  of  San  Pancrazio  as  he  was  going  to  Peretola 
upon  some  business  of  sheep.     Buondelmonte  was 

131 


Tona   Jldocnturcs 

coming  in  from  hawking  in  the  meadows  by  the 
river.  He  had  his  falcon  on  his  wrist,  and  two 
greyhounds  at  his  horse's  heels.  His  color  was 
fresh  and  strong,  and  his  leather  coat  fitted  him 
well.  Forese  gave  him  the  good-day,  and  Buondel- 
monte  reined  up  to  talk. 

"What  sport  have  you  had,  Buondelmonte ?" 
asked  Forese. 

Buondelmonte  said  it  was  good.  He  had  a 
heron  and  a  crane,  and  his  goshawk  had  killed 
three  mallards  in  the  osiers.  He  asked  Forese 
where  he  was  going. 

"To  Peretola,"  said  Forese,  "to  fetch  in  some 
sheep  which  have  been  on  the  mountains.  I  have 
to  look  after  household  affairs,  you  notice,  while 
you  take  your  pastime  and  kill  mallards." 

Buondelmonte  said,  laughing,  "that  his  own 
household  affairs  were  easily  managed." 

"You  should  marry,"  said  Forese,  "and  then 
they  would  be  easier  still.  Your  wife  would  stay 
at  home  and  see  that  your  servants  did  their  work, 
and  you  would  have  still  more  time  for  your  mal- 
lards, or  for  warfare  and  exercise  of  arms." 

"It  does  not  seem  to  be  the  case  with  you, 
Forese,"  said  Buondelmonte.  "Your  wife,  I  sup- 
pose, watches  your  servants  as  well  as  any  woman; 
but  you  go  after  sheep  to  Peretola." 

Forese  said:  "There  are  reasons  for  that.  I 
have  had  some  bad  affairs  lately.  My  son  Buonac- 
corso  got  into  trouble  in  the  Garfagnana  and  came 

132 


Buondcltnontc's   Saga 

home  limping;  there  has  been  a  murrain  among 
the  cattle;  and  a  convoy  of  mine  from  Rome, 
coming  by  the  Val  di  Chiana,  was  set  upon  by  the 
Aretines  and  stripped  as  bare  as  my  hand.  More- 
over, I  have  my  daughter's  dowr}-  to  see  to.  That 
will  be  worth  having,  mind  you,  when  I  have  done 
with  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Buondelmonte,  "I  have  no  such 
business  on  my  hands." 

"It  is  a  business  which  every  man  must  take 
up  sooner  or  later,"  said  Forese.  "Think  of  it, 
Buondelmonte." 

"I  do  think  of  it,"  said  Buondelmonte;  and  so 
they  parted. 

Buondelmonte  rode  into  the  city,  to  his  house 
in  the  Borgo  Apostoli.  He  talked  to  his  friends 
of  what  Forese  had  said  to  him;  and  they  all  agreed 
that  he  should  msLvry.  For,  as  they  put  it  to  him, 
a  man  is  not  a  man  until  he  has  made  a  man.  Al- 
berigo  degl'  Importuni  said:  "An  alliance  rightly 
framed  might  bring  great  advantage  to  Florence 
and  to  our  party.  I  like  hard  knocks  as  well  as 
any  man,  but  they  are  best  dealt  with  in  the  open, 
not  at  the  street  comer.  There  has  been  too  much 
secret  stabbing  of  late,  all  done  in  the  dark.  If  you 
do  marry,  Buondelmonte,  let  it  be  in  a  good  kin- 
dred." 

"Forese  Donati  was  talking  about  his  girl  this 
morning,"  said  Buondelmonte.  "He  seemed  to 
think  that  she  would  have  something." 

^33 


Tend   }ldoenture$ 

"It  will  be  all  there  is,  then,"  said  Viero  Gian- 
figliazzi,  who  was  there;  "and  what  he  will  find 
for  the  other,  except  a  veil  and  a  pair  of  sandals, 
I  should  be  sorry  to  say." 

"Has  he  two  daughters?"  Buondelmonte  asked. 
"Yes,  there  are  two,"  said  Viero,  "as  I  happen 
to  know." 

They  advised  him  strongly  to  marry  one  of  the 
Uberti  kindred.  No  reason  could  be  urged  against 
it.  There  had  not  been  bad  blood  between  Buon- 
delmonte and  that  house,  or  what  there  may  have 
been  in  the  past  seemed  all  fair  now;  but  be- 
tween the  Uberti  and  the  Donati  it  had  been  very 
bad. 

"If  you  go  on  with  the  Donati,"  said  Alberigo, 
"you  will  draw  anew  upon  our  faction  all  the 
misesteem  of  the  Uberti,  and  no  good  can  come  of 
that.  Choose  one  of  the  Uberti;  or  if  they  don't 
suit,  go  to  the  Fifanti  or  Amidei,  settle  how  much 
you  will  lay  out,  and  see  about  it  as  soon  as  you 
can.  You  are  the  head  of  all  our  race,  and  should 
provide  us  with  an  heir.  Sons  to  fight  under  your 
ensign  are  no  bad  ensigns  in  themselves,  let  me  tell 
you.  And  do  not  let  the  pretensions  of  the  Uberti 
trouble  you.  When  once  we  are  all  together  under 
the  tree  it  will  be  an  odd  thing  if  none  of  the  apples 
fall  into  our  laps." 

The  others  agreed. 

Buondelmonte  said  he  would  talk  with  Schiatta 
degli  Uberti  about  it.     vSchiatta  had  treated  him 

134 


Bucndelmontc's   Saga 

fairlv  of  late.  He  would  give  fifty  gold  florins 
for  Morgengabe — which  is  what  they  call  the  gift 
paid  by  the  bridegroom  for  the  honor  of  the  bride 
on  the  morning  after  marriage — to  a  good  girl  who 
brought  him  1500  liras  in  lands,  goods,  and  money. 

In  two  or  three  days'  time,  his  mind  made  up, 
Buondelmonte  went  to  the  house  of  the  Uberti 
behind  the  church  of  San  Stefano.  He  found 
Schiatta  sitting  at  board  in  the  high  seat,  with  his 
kinsmen  all  about  him — Lambertuccio  degl'  Amidei, 
Mosca  de'  Lamberti,  Oderigo  Fifanti,  and  others 
of  the  race.  Schiatta  made  him  welcome,  gave 
him  a  place  next  to  himself  at  the  high  table,  and 
asked  him  how  he  did. 

"Very  well,"  said  Buondelmonte,  "but  not  so 
well  that  I  could  not  do  better." 

"  That  is  the  case  with  most  of  us,"  said  Schiatta, 
throwing  back  his  shoulders  to  open  his  chest. 
"But  how  can  I  serve  you  in  that?" 

"  Why,  perhaps  in  this  way:  my  kinsmen  tell  me 
that  I  should  take  a  wife." 

"Well,"  said  Schiatta,  "that  is  a  good  thing  to 
do.     But  do  you  ask  me  to  give  you  mine?' 

"It  is  a  wife  I  seek,  not  a  grandmother,"  said 
Buondelmonte.  "And  I  am  willing  to  offer  so  much, 
if  on  behalf  of  one  of  your  girls  you  will  put  down 
so  much.  This  will  show  you,  I  hope,  that  I  have 
no  mind  for  foolish  old  grudges  on  the  score  of  our 
forefathers*  misadventures." 

Schiatta  said:  "This  is  a  serious  matter,  if  you 

135 


Tend   jFldocntMres 

are  serious.  I  shall  not  deny  that  I  am  very  glad 
of  your  friendly  offer." 

"I  take  the  world  as  lightly  as  I  dare,"  said 
Buondelmonte;  "but  I  am  quite  serious  in  this 
affair." 

"We'll  soon  see  about  that,"  said  Schiatta. 

"The  sooner  the  better  for  me,"  Buondelmonte 
said. 

All  the  eyes  of  the  kindred  were  fixed  upon  him; 
but  he  bore  their  scrutiny  pleasantly  and  -  well. 
Some  of  them  began  to  talk  together  in  undertones ; 
and  Schiatta  sat  quiet,  tapping  his  teeth  with  his 
dagger.  The  young  men,  sons  of  Schiatta,  and  the 
bastards,  nephews,  and  cousins,  as  they  had  been 
taught,  looked  down  at  their  platters  while  this  was 
going  forward.  The  minstrel  sat  at  the  end  of  the 
board,  his  rote  upon  his  knee,  waiting  the  sign. 

Presently  Schiatta  looked  straight  at  Buondel- 
monte, and  asked,  "How  much  are  you  good  for, 
my  friend?" 

Buondelmonte  said:  "I  like  your  frankness, 
Schiatta,  and  will  repay  it  in  kind.  My  wife  will 
have  her  portion  in  my  lands  of  Montebuono  in 
Val  di  Greve  and  my  tenements  in  Signa.  She 
will  have  the  use  of  my  house  in  the  Borgo,  and 
of  all  the  gear  both  there  and  at  Montebuono.  In 
addition  to  this,  I  will  give  her  fifty  gold  florins 
for  her  honor  as  Morgengabe,  if  you  will  endow 
her  with   1500  liras  in  movables." 

136 


Biiondclniontc's   Saga 

"That's  a  very  handsome  offer,"  said  Schiatta; 
"and  I  shall  advise  one  of  my  kindred  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  it." 

Mosca  de'  Lamberti  knocked  on  the  table.  "I 
will  offer  my  daughter  Lapia  to  Buondelmonte, 
Schiatta,"  he  said,  and  seemed  very  keen. 

Buondelmonte,  who  had  his  reasons,  said  that 
his  business  was  with  Schiatta  himself  as  far  as  he 
understood  it.  He  could  not  abide  Mosca,  though 
he  had  nothing  against  the  man,  except  an  old 
quarrel  in  which  each  of  them  had  been  to  blame. 

"That  is  ver>^  well,"  said  Schiatta,  "but  it  is  not 
in  my  power  to  oblige  you.  Two  of  my  girls  are 
wedded  already,  and  one  is  promised,  and  a  fourth 
is  too  old,  and  a  fifth  too  young  for  you.  I  suppose 
you  to  be  in  a  hurry  ?" 

Buondelmonte  said,  the  sooner  the  better:  that 
brought  Mosca  to  his  feet.  "I  say  again,  Schiatta," 
he  said,  "that  I  am  ready  to  meet  Buondelmonte  at 
this  very  hour.  And  I  hope  he  will  read  in  that  a 
sign  that  I  bear  him  no  grudge." 

"What  says  Buondelmonte  to  that?"  Schiatta 
asked,  and  Buondelmonte  replied  that  he  could  not 
hope  to  please  Mosca  de'  Lamberti.    Mosca  sat  down. 

"That  being  so,"  said  Schiatta,  with  a  great 
laugh,  "I  recommend  you  to  my  kinsman  Lam- 
bertuccio,  who  has  a  fine  girl  to  dispose  of." 

Buondelmonte  knew  this  man  well,  as  being  of 
a  house,  the  Amidei,  than  which  there  were  few  in 
Florence  better  descended  or  on  surer  ground.     He 
lo  137 


Tend   Jldpcniurcs 

liked  the  man,  too,  and  respected  him.  Lamber- 
tuccio  was  a  composed,  smooth  man,  tall  and  finely 
dressed.  He  had  a  large  house,  kept  an  open  table, 
and  never  went  out  under  the  Gonfalon  without  a 
following  of  fifty  men  on  horseback.  He  was  first 
cousin  of  Schiatta's,  and  nephew  of  Mosca  de' 
Lamberti's,  that  is,  sister's  son. 

"What  do  you  think,  Lambertuccio,  of  this  fine 
offer  of  Buondelmonte's?"  said  Schiatta;  "will  it 
suit  your  Cunizza?" 

Lambertuccio  said  that  he  thought  it  might,  if 
Buondelmonte  held  to  it. 

"My  offer  was  made  to  Schiatta,"  Buondelmonte 
said;  "  but  I  shall  not  be  far  away  from  him  if  I  go 
with  you.     Is  your  daughter  to  be  seen?" 

"You  shall  see  her  this  afternoon,"  said  Lam- 
bertuccio, "if  you  will  come  to  my  house.  At  this 
hour  she  will  be  sleeping,  and  will  look  all  the  bet- 
ter for  it  afterwards.  But  come  when  you  please 
between  noon  and  sundown." 

Buondelmonte  replied  that  he  would  certainly 
come,  but  without  binding  himself ;  and  then  he  took 
his  leave  and  went  to  walk  on  the  Piazza  until  it 
should  be  time  to  go.  Here  he  met  Forese  Donati 
by  chance,  who  asked  him  if  he  had  been  thinking 
over  what  he  had  said  the  other  day.  Oh  yes, 
said  Buondelmonte,  he  had  been  turning  it  over  in 
his  mind.  Well,  Forese  said,  he  believed  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  well  done,  when  it  was  settled. 
Buondelmonte  owned  it  would  be  very  good. 

13S 


Buondclmonic's   Saga 

*'I  believe  I  could  meet  you,"  said  Forese,  "in  a 
reasonable  way." 

"I  have  seen  your  daughter,"  Buondelmonte 
said.  "She  looks  a  strong,  willing  girl,  and  very 
religious." 

Forese  said:  "She  is  all  that  and  more.  But  I 
have  another  girl." 

"Ah,"  said  Buondelmonte,  "I  heard  something 
of  it,  but  I  have  never  seen  her." 

"How  would  it  be  if  I  were  to  show  her  to  you ?" 
asked  Forese. 

"  There  would  be  no  harm  done  at  any  rate.  But 
to-day  I  cannot.     I  have  business." 

"As  you  please  and  when  you  please,"  said 
Forese,  rather  red  in  the  face.  "We  Donati  have 
no  need  to  press  our  alliances.  But  it  might  be 
worth  your  while." 

"Very  easily  indeed,"  said  Buondelmonte.  Forese 
cursed  him  for  a  dunghill  cock,  and  went  off  on 
his  affairs.  He  felt  vexed  with  himself  for  having 
cheapened  to  little  purpose,  and  determined  he  had 
best  say  nothing  to  his  wife  about  it;  for  she  took 
these  things  to  heart,  and  made  a  noise  in  the  house, 
so  that  the  neighbors  knew  as  much  about  his 
trouble  as  he  did. 

Buondelmonte  went  to  the  house  of  the  Amidei, 
and  Lambertuccio  told  his  wife  to  fetch  down 
Cunizza.  So  she  was  brought  in.  Buondelmonte 
saw  that  she  was  a  strapping  girl,  white  as  milk, 
with  yellow  hair,   and  brown   eyes  like   a  deer's, 

139 


Tona   Jldocttttircs 

which  had  a  trick  of  staring.  Well  brought  up, 
too,  she  proved;  not  timid,  answering  whatever 
questions  were  put  to  her  in  a  quiet  voice,  without 
tremor  and  with  no  trouble  either  in  breath  or 
blood.  She  was  turned  fifteen,  and  had  never  been 
sick  or  sorry  since  she  was  weaned.  Buondelmonte 
saw  that  here  was  a  w4fe  who  would  do  him  credit, 
and  get  him  an  heir  as  soon  as  he  pleased.  He 
said  a  few  things  to  her  as  they  came  into  his  head, 
jokes  and  pleasantries.  She  looked  down  at  her 
feet.  Then  he  gave  her  a  kiss  upon  her  cool  chin; 
and  then  she  was  taken  away  by  her  mother. 

Lambertuccio  asked  how  the  business  struck 
him.     He  said,  "I  am  ready  to  go  on  with  it." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lambertuccio,  "we  will  have 
the  deed  drawn  up,  and  then  do  you  come  here 
with  your  witnesses  and  you  shall  plight  her  with 
your  ring  as  soon  as  you  have  sealed.  Will  you 
drink  a  cup?" 

"Very  willingly."  Lambertuccio's  wife  poured 
out  the  cup,  and  all  three  drank  of  it  in  turn. 

The  news  came  into  the  Old  Market  that  Buon- 
delmonte was  betrothed  to  Lambertuccio's  girl 
Cunizza,  and  that  the  dowry  was  such  and  such. 
There  was  plenty  of  talk,  as  there  always  is  about 
those  things.  Forese  Donati  heard  of  it,  and  was 
very  angr^^;  but  he  said  nothing  at  home.  "Take 
troubles  as  they  come,"  he  thought;  "my  wife  will 
know  soon  enough." 

140 


Btiondclmonte's   Saga 

Gualdrada  got  the  news  at  San  Piero  Maggiore 
when   she   went   to   mass.     She   was  in   a   terrible 
stew.     Half  her  husband's  lands  would  not  have 
been  too  much  for  Buondelmonte;  but  when  they 
told  her  of  his  splendid  proposals  and  of  the  dowry 
that  went  with  Cunizza,  she  could  have  torn  her 
hair  out.     "A  white  slug,"  she  called  Cunizza — "a 
mule,  a  cow,  a  bolster,  a  load  of  clay."     She  told 
Forese  all  her  trouble.     Had  he  heard  of  it?     Yes, 
he   said,  he   had   understood   something   about  it. 
It  was  likely  to  be  a  fine  match,  a  great  aUiance 
on    both    sides.     Buondelmonte    would    not    come 
empty  to  the  wedding,  nor  alone.     Half  the  Borgo 
were  his  kindred — Giandonati,  Gianfigliazzi,  Degli 
Scali,  Gualterotti,   Importuni.     The  Uberti  woiild 
be  more  careful  how  they  came  down  the  streets 
with   naked    swords    after    this.     It   was    good    to 
have   a  hostage  of   theirs  in  hand.     A  wife  was, 
as  it  were,  a  hostage.     Then  there  would  be  chil- 
dren— better  and  better.     Forese  would  have  gone 
on  if   she   had   not   stopped   him  with   dangerous 
eyes.     "Children!     Yes,  indeed.     But  what  of  my 
children?     They  are  to  be  barren,  it  seems.     And 
kiss  the  rosary,  and  have  the  crucifix  for  a  bed- 
fellow!    And  this  to  go  on  under  your  nose,  Forese, 
and  all  you  do  is  to  talk  of  great  matches,   and 
hostages,  and  advantage  to  the  Borgo.     Where  is 
our  advantage  ?     What  is  to  be  done  for  my  beauti- 
ful girl?     Is  that  hair  to  be  sheared  off?     Is  that 
soft  body  to  be  scrubbed  by  gray  serge?     Have  I 

141 


pinched  all  these  years  for  the  advantage  of  the 
Borgo?  Gone  hungry  to  my  bed  so  that  the 
Gualterotti  may  go  safely  to  theirs?  Oh,  you 
have  given  me  something  to  dream  about,  let  me 
tell  you." 

"Wife,"  said  Forese,  "I  cannot  force  Buondel- 
monte  to  take  my  girl.  That  is  not  a  becoming 
action  for  the  Donati;  and  so  I  told  him  only  the 
other  day." 

Gualdrada  narrowed  her  eyes  and  peered  at  her 
husband. 

"Ah,  so  you  have  spoken  to  him  about  Pic- 
carda?"  she  said.  "Now  I  am  learning  something. 
And  the  other  day?     On  his  way  to  the  Amidei?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Forese.  "How  you  take  me 
up.  You  have  it  wrong.  I  spoke  to  him  then, 
sure  enough;  but  we  had  talked  of  it  before,  maybe 
a  week  ago.  And  I  say  again  I  could  not  force 
Piccarda  into  his  arms." 

Gualdrada  raised  her  hands  and  let  them  fall 
with  a  clap.  Then  she  turned  fiercely  upon  her 
husband. 

"This  is  what  comes  of  your  grievous  secrecy," 
she  said,  "that  holds  my  dearest  hope  in  the  shut 
fist  of  you,  and  lets  it  wither  sooner  than  give  it 
air.  Now,  what  a  fine  turn  you  have  done  me, 
and  your  own  daughter,  and  our  affairs — as  if  they 
needed  it!  Do  you  suppose  I  would  have  let  go 
of  Buondelmonte  if  I  had  seen  him  once  or  twice  ? 
But  no!     You  must  needs  go  and  come,  and  sit  to 

142 


Buondclntontc's   Saga 

eat,  and  lie  in  your  bed,  with  all  this  fast  in  your 
mind,  and  when  it  is  too  late  and  the  chance  gone 
for  good,  you  tell  me  the  whole  story  as  if  it  was 
news.     Now,  I  shall  say  to  you,  Forese — " 

He  stopped  her  here,  saying:  "You  have  told 
me  too  much.     Better  hold  there." 

"Then  I  am  to  see  you  bring  your  family  to 
ruin,  and  laugh  with  you  at  the  good-fortime  of 
the  Borgo;  and  perhaps  stand  gossip  to  the  child?" 
said  Gualdrada,  folding  her  arms. 

Forese  said:  "You  are  to  see  what  you  please, 
and  laugh  as  you  can.  But  you  are  not  to  rail  at 
me.  You  may  tempt  me  to  do  that  which  will 
give  you  pain  in  one  part  and  me  pain  in  another. 
I  don't  advise  it." 

She  knew  she  could  not  go  any  further;  so  held 
her  tongue.  But  when  Forese  had  gone  out,  she 
walked  up  and  down  her  hall,  thinking  of  her 
troubles,  past  and  to  come.  And  for  many  days, 
as  she  sat  or  walked,  or  went  to  church,  or  did  her 
marketing,  she  kept  the  bitter  thing  astir  in  her 
mind.  She  felt  that  she  had  a  grudge  indeed. 
The  Amidei  had  outwitted  her.  Nay,  they  had 
robbed  her.  For  if  Buondelmonte  had  been  to 
her  first,  as  he  as  good  as  promised  Forese,  it 
stood  to  reason  that  he  would  have  concluded 
where  he  was.  And  the  portion  that  went  with 
Cunizza!  She  knew  the  length  of  her  coffer  to 
a  finger's -point,  and  what  was  in  it.  She  could 
have  given  200  liras  more  than  the  Amidei.     Yes, 

143 


Totta   Jldventurcs 

she  had  been  cheated  of  the  best  match  in  Flor- 
ence. 

One  night,  as  she  thought  of  it  all  more  griev- 
ously than  ever,  she  took  the  lamp  in  her  hand 
and  went  into  the  chamber  where  her  two  girls 
slept  together.  She  held  the  lamp  over  her  head  | 
and  turned  back  the  bedclothes.  Capuccia  lay 
on  her  back,  but  Piccarda  on  her  face,  with  her 
cheek  turned  sideways  on  the  bolster,  and  all  her 
hair  tumbling  about  her.  Her  body  was  white 
as  alabaster,  and  her  cheek  flushed  like  the  heart 
of  a  rose.  Her  long  eyelashes  brushed  it  and 
curved  upwards.  "Ay,"  said  Gualdrada  to  herself, 
"there's  a  bonny  shape  for  a  nunnery,  and  a  flower 
to  hide  up  among  cloister  weeds."  Piccarda,  feel- 
ing the  cold,  turned  and  opened  her  eyes.  Her 
mother  kissed  her  on  the  cheek  and  shoulder  a 
half-dozen  times  and  covered  her  up  again.  Then 
she  blundered  out  of  the  chamber  as  best  she 
could,  for  the  tears  blinded  her. 

After  the  betrothal,  Buondelmonte  went  once 
or  twice  to  see  Cunizza,  but  to  no  very  good 
purpose.  He  found  the  girl  unresponsive,  too 
well-bred  by  half.  "If  this  is  a  foretaste  of  the 
rest  of  our  commerce,"  he  said  to  himself,  "it 
promises  to  be  a  dull  affair."  He  liked  Lam- 
bertuccio  very  well,  and  his  wife;  but  Schiatta 
degli  Uberti  did  not  please  him.  Though  he 
knew  his  own  value  quite  well,  he  was  himself  a 

144 


Buondeltnonte's   Saga 

modest   man,   which   Schiatta   was   not.      And   he 
grew    tired    of    hearing    of    his    good  -  fortune,    of 
the    fine    match    he    had    made    for    himself,    and 
greatly  resented  being  told  that  his  politics  were 
contemptible.      Schiatta    talked    openly    when    he 
was  well  fed;  he  did  not  disguise  his  intention  of 
ruling  the  city.     He  had  hopes  of  being  Vicar  of 
the  Empire:   that  would    do  for  a  beginning.     In 
those  days,  he  said,  it  would  be  as  well  to  find  your- 
self on  the  right  side.     "You  would  not  choose, 
Buondelmonte,"   he  continued,   "to  see  your  wife 
and  children  trudging  the  hill  road  to  Bologna  just 
because   you   had   held    out    against   her   family." 
Buondelmonte  laughed,  and  said  that  all  roads  did 
not  lead  to  Bologna.     "Some  go  to  Arezzo,  Schiat- 
ta," he  said,  "where  the  Tarlati  might  take  pity 
on   the   Emperor's   cast-offs.     And   that  would  be 
the  time  for  you  to  reflect  whether  you  had  done 
wisely  to  refuse  the  warnings  of  your  niece's  hus- 
band, between  this  and  Arezzo,  my  dear  friend." 
Schiatta  frowned  and  said  this  was  poor  jesting;  his 
son  Farinata,  who  was  a  tall,  black-browed  young 
man,  openly  advised  Buondelmonte  to  talk  of  other 
things.     Buondelmonte  held  on  for  a  little,  to  save 
his  face;  but  he  was  much   annoyed.     Mosca  de' 
Lamberti,  who  was  present — he  was  a  grizzled  one- 
eyed  man,  who  grinned  fearfully  when  he  was  put 
out — followed  him  into  the  street  after  dark,  say- 
ing he  would  walk  with  him  to  Por'  Santa  Maria. 
"You  are  a  bold  man,  Buondelmonte,"  he  said,  "to 

145 


Tend   Jldt^entures 

go  out  alone  and  unarmed  after  nightfall,  having       j 
said  the  things  you  have."  j 

"I  think  better  of  Schiatta  than  you  do,  it  ap-        * 
pears,"  said  Buondelmonte;  "for  though  I  consider 
him  a  boaster,  arrogant,  and  quarrelsome,  I  have 
never  suspected  him  of  being  a  night-stabber." 

"He  has  many  friends,"  said  Mosca,  "who  would 
be  glad  to  prove  their  service." 

"It  would  be  a  strange  way  of  proving  it,  to  my 
thinking.  Are  you  one  of  them?  Here  is  your 
chance  if  you  wish  for  it.  This  is  a  lonely  corner, 
for  instance.  Would  you  prefer  me  to  stand  still, 
or  can  you  hit  a  running  deer?" 

"This  is  very  foolish  talk,"  said  Mosca.  "Yet 
the  entry  of  the  gate  here  would  be  an  ugly  place 
for  a  man  against  two  or  three." 

Buondelmonte  measured  the  ground  with  his  eye. 
There  was  moonlight,  which  was  reflected  in  the 
river,  brimful  of  winter  rains.  "I  could  show  you 
a  worse  in  the  Borgo,"  he  said.  "We  fight  very 
close  in  there.  But,  to  be  sure,  we  don't  send  out 
six  against  one,  as  a  rule." 

Mosca  came  closer  and  grinned  into  his  face. 
"One  against  one  is  good  fighting  for  me,"  he  said, 
"by  day  or  by  night,  with  sword  or  dagger.  And 
so  I  proved  it  with  you  once  before." 

Buondelmonte  had  a  thought  that  Mosca  wished 
to  pick  up  the  old  quarrel  with  him;  but  as  he  had 
no  more  ill-will  towards  the  man  than  what  sprang 
from  hearty  dislike,  he  took  no  notice.     He  did  say, 

146 


Buondclmonic's   Saga 

however,  that  he  was  glad  Mosca  could  be  so  easily 
satisfied.  Mosca  stopped  short;  Buondelmonte 
stopped  also.  "Yes,  I  can  be  satisfied,  Buondel- 
monte," said  he,  "if  it  will  satisfy  you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  fight  with  a  one-eyed  man,"  said 
Buondelmonte.  "You  had  two  when  we  tried  con- 
clusions before;  and  a  thing  done  is  done  with  for 
me."  Mosca  took  a  sharp  breath  and  seemed  about 
to  spring  at  him;  but  he  went  on:  "And,  moreover, 
to  kill  the  kinsman  of  my  affianced  wife,  or  to  be 
killed  by  him,  if  you  will,  is  stupid  preparation  for 
a  marriage,  to  my  mind." 

Mosca  seemed  to  come  to  his  senses  after  this, 
muttered  some  sort  of  excuse,  that  he  had  over- 
drunk himself,  held  out  his  hand,  and  would  have 
embraced  Buondelmonte.  This,  however,  the  young 
man  did  not  feel  inclined  to  accept.  He  put  his 
hand  on  his  late  enemy's  shoulder  instead.  "Re- 
member, Mosca,"  said  he,  "that  it  takes  two  to 
make  a  marriage,  and  two  for  a  good  quarrel.  If 
Lambertuccio  has  thought  it  well  to  give  me  his 
daughter,  I  may  have  had  some  thinking  to  do 
before  I  could  take  her  from  him.  But  if  Lam- 
bertuccio's  kinsman  thinks  well  to  quarrel  with  me, 
why,  I  may  have  some  more  thinking  to  do,"  said 
Buondelmonte.  Mosca  blurted  out  his  grievance: 
"You  passed  me  over.  You  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  me.  You  chose  to  follow  the  Amidei.  The 
Lamberti  are  the  better  blood,  God  knows.  And  yet 
you  passed  me  by.   I  was  angry,  and  well  I  might  be." 

147 


fond    Adventures 

"I  have  had  enou^n  Tai::\ng.  Give  you  good- 
night, Mosca,"  53"^  '^  •"  .monte,  and  turned 
about  on  his  heel  slowly  up  the  Borgo, 

picking  his  way  ?  )uddles.     Mosca  made 

the  figs  at  him  wiox.  lo  fists;  but  Buondel- 

monte  never  looked  back.  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders as  he  went  into  his  house.  "A  brisk  kindred 
is  preparing  for  me,"  he  thought,  "but  they  are 
balanced  by  a  stolid  wife.  When  I  feel  the  want 
of  bustle  at  home,  I  shall  know  where  to  go  for  it, 
by  my  head!" 

The  Uberti  began  to  think  their  new  kinsman 
was  rather  fond  of  walking  in  the  clouds.  Fari- 
nata  told  his  father  that  the  talk  about  Arezzo  and 
the  Tarlati  was  very  unbecoming.  He  thought 
Buondelmonte  ought  to  be  told.  Schiatta  laughed. 
"He  will  learn  soon  enough  where  the  corn -bin 
stands,"  he  said.  "He  has  mettle,  and  should  be 
ridden  with  a  light  hand  at  first.  If  you  put  him 
on  the  curb  now,  he  will  pull  your  arms  out  of  you. 
It  was  I  began  the  jesting." 

"You  are  the  head  of  the  house,  sir,"  said  Fari- 
nata,  "and  I  am  your  eldest  son.  You  may  say 
what  you  please;  it  is  your  right.  And  I  may  re- 
sent what  is  offensive  to  your  honor.  That,  I 
conceive,  is  my  right."  Schiatta  turned  upon 
him. 

"If  you,  Farinata,"  said  he,  "intend  to  quarrel 
with  my  new  kinsman,  you  will  have  first  to  quarrel 

148 


Buondelmonte's   $ad<i 

with  me.  I  myself  intend  quarrels  to  be  done  with. 
The  Certaldesi  have  asked  for  a  Podesta.  They 
shall  have  you.  I  will  send  word  that  you  are 
coming;  and  you  shall  be  off  this  day  three  weeks. 
By  that  time  Buondelmonte  will  be  of  the  house. 
If  you  snap  your  fingers  under  his  nose  now,  you 
will  scare  him  off.  So  let  there  be  an  end  of  it. 
Go  and  snap  your  fingers  in  Certaldo." 

Farinata  said  that  he  would  obey.  "Of  course 
you  will  obey,"  said  Schiatta;  "I  should  like  to  see 
the  son  of  mine  who  would  disobey." 

Buondelmonte  went  to  see  his  affianced  the  very 
next  day,  and  remained  with  her  for  an  hour  or  so. 
Next  he  went  to  the  hall  of  the  Uberti,  just  to  show 
that  he  was  not  to  be  put  down  by  Schiatta  or  in- 
timidated by  his  son  Farinata.  After  that  he  let 
a  week  or  more  go  by,  during  which  he  meditated 
on  the  state  of  his  affairs.  Then  he  went  again  to 
each  house  in  turn.  Nothing  was  said  which  could 
offend  him.  Farinata  was  not  there,  Mosca  was 
very  civil,  Schiatta  as  friendly  as  he  knew  how  to 
be.  But  at  the  end  of  dinner,  as  he  mounted  his 
horse,  he  knew  that  he  was  glad  the  thing  was  over. 
"I  shall  hold  off  that  quarter  for  a  week  or  so 
more,"  he  thought.  "I  will  go  hunting  in  Monti 
Catini,  or  to  San  Casciano  to  see  Gentucca.  One 
or  both  of  these  pastimes  I  will  afford  myself." 
He  rode  up  the  street  called  "de'  Balestrieri,"  which 
leads  along  the  old  wall  of  Florence  past  the  Badia, 

149 


Tond   Jldocntures 

until  he  came  to  the  Corso,  which  runs  east  and 
west  in  a  straight  Hne;  and  there  hesitated,  wonder- 
ing what  he  should  do.  He  was  in  a  quarter  which 
held  few  of  his  friends,  and  was  unarmed;  instead 
of  holding  on,  therefore,  he  turned  west  along  the 
Corso,  and  rode  at  a  walking  pace,  the  reins  loose, 
and  his  thoughts  fixed  upon  his  discontent.  Richly- 
dressed,  as  his  custom  was,  sitting  a  fine  horse,  he 
had  the  appearance  of  a  lord  of  the  earth,  but  of  one 
who  took  his  signiory  lightly,  as  if  it  was  a  play- 
thing. Many  a  woman  followed  him  with  her  eyes, 
or  nudged  her  workmate,  and  said:  "There  rides 
a  winsome  young  man.  Happy  is  she  who  gets 
him." 

Gualdrada  Donati  was  looking  out  of  an  upper 
window  of  her  house,  and  saw  him  coming.  Her 
heart  gave  a  leap  upwards,  and  she  looked  the 
other  way,  as  people  do  when  they  are  considering 
something  they  have  seen  suddenly.  Then  she 
drew  a  deep  breath  and  opened  the  shutters  wide, 
waiting  for  him  to  pass.  As  he  came  under  her 
window  she  took  a  flower  from  her  dress  and  dropped 
it  before  him  into  the  street.  Buondelmonte  saw  it 
fall,  and  checked  his  horse  lest  it  should  trample 
it.  The  next  minute  he  looked  up,  and  saw  Gual- 
drada. A  boy  in  the  street  picked  up  the  flower  and 
put  it  in  his  hand.  Buondelmonte,  smiling,  took 
the  flower  and  touched  his  lips  with  it,  still  looking 
tip  at  Gualdrada. 

"For  me,  fair  lady?"  he  asked. 

150 


Btiondclmontc's   Saga 

"A  greeting  from  your  friends,"  said  Gualdrada. 

"Happy  augury!"  he  said,  and  again  kissed  the 
flower. 

"Why  not?"  said  Gualdrada.  "Do  not  all  wish 
you  well?  For  one  so  seldom  seen  you  are  much 
loved." 

"If  I  am  seldom  seen,"  said  he,  "it  is  no  fault  of 
mine.  If  I  am  seldom  invited,  I  must  needs  sit 
at  home." 

Gualdrada  said,  "If  I  invite  one,  I  like  to  be 
sure  of  my  guests." 

"Then  you  may  invite  whom  you  will,  lady," 
said  he. 

She  said,  "What  if  I  take  you  at  your  word?" 

"Try  me,"  said  Buondelmonte.  She  replied 
nothing,  but  looked  at  him,  and  smiled  wisely  and 
slowly.  She  was  a  handsome,  sleepy  -  looking 
woman,  whom  it  became  to  smile  in  that  fashion. 
Buondelmonte  called  his  page  to  tie  up  his  horse. 
He  dismounted,  and  looking  up  to  the  window, 
held  out  the  flower.  Gualdrada  saw  him,  and 
drew  in  her  head.     He  went  up  the  stair. 

Gualdrada  poured  a  cup  of  wine  and  touched  it 
with  her  lips,  looking  at  Buondelmonte  as  she  did 
it.  Then  she  offered  it  to  him  silently;  and  he 
took  it  and  turned  it  round,  so  that  the  place  her 
lips  had  touched  his  should  also  touch. 

"To  what  shall  I  drink,  lady?" 

She   said:    "To   what    I    did,   O    Buondelmonte. 

151 


Tona   Jldoeni urcs 

To  the  fair  bride,  and  the  marriage-bed,  and  the 
rich  dowry." 

"That  is  a  toast  I  cannot  refuse  you,"  said  he, 
and  drank  deep.  Then  they  began  to  talk  famiharly 
together,  sitting  side  by  side  in  the  window-seat. 
She  told  him  she  was  a  diviner,  who  by  secret  arts 
would  find  out  the  uttermost  places  of  his  heart. 
Laughing,  he  said  that  she  would  see  herself  in 
there. 

"I  know  better  than  that,"  she  said.  "For 
instance,  I  know  that  you  have  just  now  been 
visiting  a  lady.     Is  it  not  so?" 

"It  is  so." 

"Now  this  lady  was  kind,  and  not  cold  at  all; 
and  she  gave  you  three  kisses.     Am  I  right?" 

He  laughed  again.  "No,  you  are  gone  astray. 
The  lady  whom  I  visited  was  neither  kind  nor  cold ; 
and  as  for  her  kisses,  she  harbored  them  against 
the  proper  time." 

"The  spells  have  worked  awry,"  said  Gualdrada; 
"but  still  I  seem  to  see  something.  I  see  her  cross 
her  arms  and  bow  her  head  before  you,  bidding  you 
by  those  gestures  to  take  her  when  you  are  ready. 
Again,  I  see  her  with  scissors  in  her  hand  cut  a 
strand  of  her  dark  hair  for  your  delight.  Now  I 
am  right." 

"You  are  very  wrong  indeed.  The  lady  sat  all 
the  time  by  the  window,  spinning  flax  for  a  bridal 
garment.  And  in  her  hair,  which  is  as  yellow  as 
corn,  the  snood  was  fast,  and  so  it  will  remain  yet 

152 


Buonaclmcntc's   Saga 

awhile.  I  see  that  you  know  very  Httle  of  this 
lady,  for  all  your  nigromancy." 

"In  the  crystal  ball,"  said  Gualdrada,  "I  saw  her 
speaking  a  quick  welcome;  and  words  came  tum- 
bling from  her  lips.  And  I  saw  her  take  you  by 
the  hand  and  show  3'ou  her  coffer  full  to  the  lid 
with  silver  and  gold,  fine  linen  and  wool.  And 
I  heard  it  said  that  she  would  scorn  to  take  money 
from  you  for  her  Morgengabe;  for  as  her  honor 
was  above  price,  so  she  would  freely  give  it  you  for 
the  asking." 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  Buondelmonte.  "She 
speaks  when  she  is  spoken  to,  and  said  Yes  when 
I  asked  her  a  question,  and  No  when  I  asked  her 
another." 

"She  could  hardly  do  less,  certainly,"  said  Gual- 
drada. "But  she  comes  of  a  good  house,  and  a 
rich  house.     The  coffer  may  speak  for  her." 

"The  coffer  is  a  good  orator,"  Buondelmonte 
said,  "and  never  tells  lies." 

She  said,  "  I  warrant  it  has  spoken  handsomely  to 
you." 

"Lady,"  he  answered  her,  tired  of  this  fencing, 
"if  the  coffer  is  not  full,  I  can  fill  it  up.  But  you 
have  much  to  learn  of  sorcery  and  divining  if  you 
mean  to  go  on  with  the  arts." 

"I  know,"  said  Gualdrada,  "what  I  have  done 

and  what  I  might  have  done.     I  know  one  more 

ardent  than  this  bride  of  yours,  who  is  as  beautiful 

as  the  flush  of  dawn;  and  what  she  has  in  hand 

"  153 


Tond   JIdpenturcs 

for  the  man  of  my  choosing.     And  Lambertuccio 
knows  too,  and  Mosca  knows  very  well." 

"There  is  some  magic  here  at  all  events,"  said 
Buondelmonte. 

Gualdrada  said,  "Yes,  indeed,"  and  pressed  her 
lips  together. 

"What  is  this,  Gualdrada,"  said  he,  "that  you 
have  done?  Who  is  this  flushed  bride?  Who 
is  the  man  you  are  to  choose  for  her?  Light  a 
candle;  it  is  hard  walking  in  the  dark." 

Then  Gualdrada  got  up,  saying:  "You  shall 
judge.  Wait  a  little."  She  went  to  the  door  of  a 
closet,  opened  it,  and  called  out,  "Come,  Piccarda." 
Out  there  came  in  a  little  while  a  virgin  not  fifteen 
years  old,  as  beautiful  as  the  rose  of  dawn.  Gual- 
drada took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  before 
Buondelmonte,  who  was  greatly  astonished. 

She  said:  "See  this  girl  of  mine,  Buondelmonte; 
look  at  her  well.  Is  she  not  a  lovely  person? 
Look  at  these  smooth  arms.  Are  the  bride's  as 
white  and  warm?  Hath  the  bride  hair  of  this 
length  and  texture?  Hath  she  cheeks  to  flame  as 
quick?"  She  touched  the  girl's  cheeks  and  set 
them  on  fire.  She  held  up  her  chin  and  bade  her 
look  Buondelmonte  in  the  face,  saying,  "Give  him 
look  for  look,  Piccarda;  for  you  may  never  see 
again  so  fine  a  young  man  when  you  are  in  the 
cloister,  nor  so  great  a  lord,  unless  he  be  painted 
upon  the  walls."  Buondelmonte  saw  that  she  had 
gray   eyes,   narrow   and   serious,   like   deep   water; 

154 


Buondel tnonte's   Saga 

and  remembered  that  Cunizza's  were  brown  and 
blank.  Piccarda  had  a  gown  of  white  silk  upon 
her,  and  a  belt  of  gold. 

"By  the  Lord  Jesus!"  said  Buondelmonte,  "this 
is  a  lovely  person  indeed,  and  he  is  a  fortiinate  man 
who  possesses  her." 

Gualdrada  said:  "I  have  no  patience  with  you, 
Buondelmonte,  for  your  haste  and  easy  temper. 
For  I  had  kept  this  girl  for  you  from  the  hour  in 
which  I  saw  what  her  worth  was.  No  man  has  ever 
looked  at  her  but  you,  nor  she  at  any  man  but  her 
father  and  you.  Her  very  brothers  are  strangers 
to  her.  And  now,  for  some  chance  word  of  a  fool, 
you  have  sold  yourself  to  a  girl  of  stone  and  little 
account ;  and  my  Piccarda  must  go  into  the  cloister 
of  the  Gray  Women." 

"That  will  be  a  great  wrong  done  her,"  said 
Buondelmonte,  "and  I  am  sorry  on  every  account. 
But  the  Amidei  are  a  good  house,  well  descended, 
and  their  kindred  are  strong  men." 

"It 'seems,  indeed,  that  you  think  them  strong 
men,"  said  Gualdrada.  "And  it  may  be  that  the 
Uberti  and  the  Lamberti  and  Fifanti  are  too  much  for 
the  Buondelmonti,  though  formerly  it  was  other- 
wise." 

"How,  lady,  too  much?"  he  asked  her,  redden- 
ing a  little;  for,  even-tempered  as  he  was,  he  did 
not  relish  this  morsel.  But  he  looked  again  at 
Piccarda,  and  kept  looking  at  her. 

"Why,"  said  Gualdrada,  "if  Schiatta  had  a  mind 

155 


Tend   Jfd<)cntures 

he  could  compel  you  to  wed  with  his  cook-maid, 
and  a  dowry  of  a  hundred  soldi.'' 

"You  speak  lightly,"  he  said,  "and  as  if  you 
were  vexed.  But  you  are  wide  of  the  mark.  He 
offered  me  Mosca's  daughter,  but  I  refused  him. 
Let  me  go  now,  lest  I  regret  something."  He  said 
this  without  offering  to  go,  or  removing  his  gaze 
from  Piccarda,  who  (for  her  part)  by  no  means  re- 
fused pleasure  to  her  own  eyes.  Her  hand  lay  still 
in  her  mother's,  but  her  looks  were  free. 

Then  Gualdrada  moved  lightly  towards  him,  and 
said,  "You  fool,  you  shall  regret  something  indeed." 
To  her  daughter  she  said,  "Girl,  take  him  into  the 
closet  and  show  him  the  marriage-portion."  She  put 
their  hands  together  and  stood  looking  at  them,  tap- 
ping her  foot  on  the  flags  and  shaking  with  rage  and 
disappointment,  as  the  damsel  led  Buondelmonte 
towards  the  closet.  There  he  saw  three  chests  full 
of  fine  stuffs,  linen  and  cloth  of  gold,  fine  woollen 
and  silken  webs,  and  long  table-cloths  with  scarlet 
fringes,  bedclothes,  and  coverlets  of  silk  and  gold 
knot-work,  hangings  of  arras  for  the  chambers  and 
hall;  and  a  chest  full  of  gold,  and  another  of 
silver. 

Amazed,  he  said  when  he  came  back,  "All  this 
with  a  damsel  so  rich  in  herself!" 

"Rich  she  is  indeed,"  said  Gualdrada,  "and  you 
have  lost  her." 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  not  so  certain,  as  it  would 
certainly  be  a  pity." 

156 


Buondclraontc's    Saga 

On  a  sudden  Gualdrada  said  to  him,  "Take  and 
kiss  her,  Buondelmonte,  for  she  was  kept  for  you." 

Buondelmonte  took  Piccarda  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  on  the  mouth;  and  when  he  felt  how 
sweet  and  buxom  she  was,  he  could  not  let  her  go, 
but  kissed  her  again.  And  she  kissed  him  back; 
and  so  they  remained  for  a  space  like  fond  lovers, 
until  he  turned  to  Gualdrada,  but  without  releasing 
the  girl,  and  said,  "I  must  have  her,  Gualdrada." 

"Well,"  said  Gualdrada,  "take  her,  then,  and  I 
will  pay  forfeit  to  the  Amidei.  Few  men  would 
refuse  her,  I  think." 

"I  am  not  one,  at  least,"  said  he;  and  after  an 
hour  took  leave  of  Gualdrada  and  his  beloved,  and 
rode  to  his  house. 

Forese  Donati  said,  when  he  heard  of  it  all: 
"There  will  be  no  good  out  of  such  a  bargain  as 
this.  I  would  rather  cut  my  hand  off  than  consent 
to  it." 

"And  I  would  rather  see  you  with  a  maimed 
stump  than  your  child  peaking  in  a  cloister,"  said 
Gualdrada. 

"It  has  a  bad  look,  this  shifting  and  veering," 
Forese  went  on.  "How  do  we  know  but  he  will 
serve  us  the  same  trick?" 

"Ah,  never,  never,"  said  Gualdrada.  "And  so 
would  you  say  if  you  had  seen  them  together. 
Love  leaped  playing  between  them  like  summer 
fires  on  the  hills.     They  were  as  two  pigeons  bill- 

157 


Tend   JIdrenf urc$ 

ing  each  other;  you  could  not  part  them.  And  was 
not  he  bound  to  us  in  the  beginning?  Did  he  not 
agree  to  come  first  to  you  before  ever  he  saw  or 
thought  of  the  Amidei  ?  And  where  does  our  house 
stand  in  Florence  if  the  Uberti  and  Buondelmonti 
and  all  their  kindreds  join  hands  ?  Do  you  wish  to 
bring  in  a  tyrant?  And  a  tyrant  like  Schiatta? 
Your  enemy  and  mine  ?  Do  we  owe  the  Uberti  so 
much?  Out  upon  such  weakness!  Is  your  heart 
a  sponge,  holding  water  instead  of  blood?" 

"You  madden  me  with  your  questions,"  said 
Forese.  He  was  not  convinced,  though  obliged  to 
own  that  he  had  spoken  to  Buondelmonte  first.  He 
was  for  going  to  Lambertuccio  then  and  there  with 
the  forfeit;  but  Gualdrada  prevailed  upon  him  to 
leave  the  thing  alone  for  a  while,  for  she  believed 
Buondelmonte  would  pay  it  himself. 

The  year  had  turned  to  the  spring;  March  was 
in,  but  Buondelmonte  had  not  been  to  the  Amidei 
house  for  three  weeks,  nor  more  than  twice  in  all 
that  time  to  see  Schiatta  degli  Uberti.  He  had 
been  in  the  countr\%  it  was  known;  but  Mosca  de' 
Lamberti  said  he  had  seen  him  in  the  city  with  his 
friends.  He  understood  that  a  large  table  was  held 
in  the  Buondelmonti  house.  Schiatta  asked  him  if 
he  had  been  a  guest  at  it;  but  Mosca  only  grinned 
and  grated  his  teeth  together.  Schiatta,  however, 
advised  Lambertuccio  to  go  to  see  Buondelmonte. 
"It  is  time  something  was  settled,"  he  said.     "I 

158 


Buondclmonte's   Saga 

hear  of  movements  over  the  mountains  which  may 
spread  into  our  plain  one  of  these  fine  days.  They 
will  wait  for  the  snows,  yet  it  is  quite  as  well 
to  have  your  musters  ready.  I  certainly  think 
you  should  see  Buondelmonte."  So  Lambertuccio 
went. 

The  two  men  greeted  each  other,  and  Lamber- 
tuccio said  that  he  had  not  seen  much  of  his  new 
kinsman  lately.  It  was  time  that  preparations 
should  be  made.  The  year  was  getting  on.  Would 
Buondelmonte  be  ready  for  the  wedding  by  Easter? 
Or  what  had  he  to  propose? 

Buondelmonte  sat  quiet  for  a  little;  presently  he 
said:  "I  think  frankness  is  a  good  thing,  Lamber- 
tuccio, and  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  I  should  have 
spoken  to  you  before  this  if  opportunity  had  served 
me.  But  I  have  been  in  the  country,  as  you  know, 
and  troubled  with  family  matters.  Now  I  must  tell 
you  that  not  only  shall  I  not  be  prepared  to  go  to 
church  with  you  by  Easter,  but  after  Pentecost  I 
don't  think  I  shall  be  ready." 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Buondelmonte?" 
said  Lambertuccio,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

Buondelmonte  said:  "I  think  that  I  was  perhaps 
hasty  in  my  determination.  I  don't  feel  myself 
inclined  to  marry  just  yet.  I  hope  I  don't  set 
more  store  by  my  youth  than  other  men,  but  I  feel 
that  I  cannot  yet  awhile  give  up  those  pleasures 
which  young  men  have  a  right  to.  Maybe  I  do 
more  honor  to  Cunizza  by  not  marrying  her  than  I 

159 


fond    }l(locnfure$ 

should  by  fulfilling  my  bargain.  I  hope  you  under- 
stand me." 

"I  hope  I  do  not,"  said  Lambertuccio.  "This 
is  a  very  unpleasant  story  you  have  been  keeping 
for  me,  Buondelmonte.  I  am  not  prepared  with 
my  answer  just  yet.  Nor  will  my  cousins  Schiatta 
degli  Uberti  and  Mosca  de'  Lamberti  be  prepared, 
if  they  are  the  prudent  men  I  think  them  to  be." 

"Ah!"  said  Buondelmonte;  "since  you  have 
named  them,  I  will  add  that  when  I  agreed  to  take 
Cunizza,  it  was  after  I  had  declined  an  offer  of 
Mosca's  and  been  declined  by  Schiatta.  There  I 
think  that  I  was  right,  and  Schiatta  right.  My 
politics  and  his  don't  agree,  and  are  never  likely 
to  agree ;  there  will  be  grief  over  that  sooner  or  later. 
It  is  wiser  to  forestall  grief  than  to  engross  it." 

"You  seem  a  poor  tradesman  to  me,"  said  Lam- 
bertuccio. "Lucky  for  you  that  Farinata  degli 
Uberti  is  safely  out  of  the  way.  I  have  known  a 
quarrel  picked  on  much  less  ground  than  this,  and 
by  him,  for  instance,  on  no  ground  at  all,  save  that 
the  color  of  a  man's  hair  displeased  him." 

"Ah,  if  you  come  to  the  color  of  hair,"  Buondel- 
monte said,  thinking,  "I  have  known  a  bride  left  in 
the  lurch  for  some  such  reason.  But  I  hope  you 
are  not  supposing  that  I  shall  decline  a  quarrel  with 
Farinata.  I  did  decline  one  with  Mosca  the  other 
day  (though  before  that  he  had  found  me  ready 
enough)  because  he  is  short  of  an  eye;  and  I  should 
decline  one  with  you,  because  you  are  father  of  a 

1 60 


Buondclmontc's   Sad^ 

lady  whom  I  esteem  and  respect.  But  the  long 
and  short  of  it  is,  Lambertuccio,  that  I  dislike 
Schiatta's  politics,  and  that  your  cousin  Mosca  is 
to  me  an  abhorrence  and  occasion  of  nausea.  You 
will  find  me  liberal,  I  hope.  I  am  prepared  to  pay 
the  forfeit  provided  by  the  bond,  and  to  hand  over 
my  fifty  florins  in  addition." 

"That  is  a  reasonable  offer,  I  must  allow,"  said 
Lambertuccio,  after  a  while;  "but  I  have  to  think 
of  my  girl's  honor.  Will  you  give  me  your  word 
not  to  marry  until  she  is  married  ?" 

"  No ;  that  I  certainly  decline  to  do,"  said  Buondel- 
monte,  "though  it  is  a  very  probable  course  of 
affairs." 

"Well,"  said  Lambertuccio,  "you  must  give  me 
time  to  talk  over  this  with  my  friends." 

"I  cannot  prevent  it;  it  is  your  right.  But  I 
hope  you  will  not  compel  me  to  take  the  bond 
before  the  Gonfalonier  to  have  it  abated.  Since 
you  speak  of  friends,  it  had  much  better  be  done 
quietly,  as  between  friends." 

Lambertuccio  thought  so  too,  though  he  made 
no  such  answer.  "Friends,"  he  said,  "are  those 
who  act  friendly."  He  did  not  know  what  to  say, 
since  he  was  not  sure  what  he  ought  to  do.  He 
was  a  slow,  deliberate,  rather  stately  man,  not  soon 
put  into  a  rage,  but  long  there  when  once  there. 
If  Buondelmonte  thought  the  troublesome  business 
over  because  Lambertuccio' s  tongue  was  at  the  end 
of  its  tether,   he  was  greatly  mistaken.     But  the 

i6i 


fond   JIdocnturcs 

fact  is,  he  thought  very  little  about  it,  save  to  be 
glad  it  was  done  with,  the  ground  cleared.  The 
moment  Lambertuccio  was  gone  he  put  a  cloak  over 
his  face  and  made  haste  to  reach  the  Donati  house. 

He  told  Forese  his  news,  which  Forese  received 
with  many  shakes  of  the  head.  "It  is  but  just  be- 
gun, the  trouble,"  he  said.  "I  should  like  to  hear 
Schiatta  and  the  whole  brood  upon  it  as  they  sit 
at  meat.  Remember,  it  was  you  that  approached 
them  in  the  first  place;  for  they  are  not  likely  to 
forget  it.  There  will  be  high  talk,  I'm  thinking. 
You  must  be  wary  of  your  steps,  Buondelmonte, 
and  wear  chain  -  mail.  They  are  a  dangerous  nest 
to  meddle  with." 

"I  shall  take  my  life  in  my  hands  when  I  go  to 
pay  the  forfeit,"  said  Buondelmonte;  "but  a  man 
does  that  when  he  walks  across  the  street.  You 
understand  that  you  are  not  an  ingredient  of  this 
broth  of  mine." 

"There's  not  much  in  that,"  said  Forese.  "I 
shall  be  bobbing  about  with  the  best,  the  roundest 
pippin  there,  so  soon  as  the  murder's  out." 

Buondelmonte  told  him  that  nothing  would  be 
done  until  his  bond  was  returned  to  him,  and  the 
affair  a  little  blown  over.  Lambertuccio  had  want- 
ed a  promise  out  of  him,  he  said,  but  he  would  not 
bind  himself  to  the  Uberti  a  second  time. 

Forese  put  a  hand  on  his  arm,  saying:  'Never 
mind  what  you  promise,  Buondelmonte;  but  see 
to  it   that   you   hold   off  until   Cunizza  is   settled. 

162 


Buondclmontc's   Saga 

She  is  of  full  age — sixteen  if  she's  a  day;  they  will 
marry  her  in  a  hurry,  to  save  her  face.  Wait  for 
that,  my  good  friend,  wait  for  that." 

Buondelmonte  was  in  a  hurry  himself,  but  said 
he  would  talk  to  Gualdrada  about  it.  So  he  did; 
but  Piccarda  was  there  too.  Gualdrada  made  very 
light  of  the  whole  story.  "My  husband  is  a  born 
croaker,"  she  said.  "Have  you  not  yet  found  him 
out  ?  If  there  comes  a  shower — there  is  to  be  a 
flood.  If  the  sun  shines — we  must  prepare  for  a 
drought.  You  will  see:  the  very  first  thing  the 
Amidei  do  will  be  to  marry  off  that  girl  to  one  of 
the  house.  There  are  plenty  of  them  to  be  had; 
money  was  never  a  want  of  theirs,  nor  big-boned 
young  men  either.  And  when  that  is  done,  or  as 
good  as  done,  what  is  to  prevent  your  marrying 
when  you  choose  ?  Nothing  at  all.  I  consider  you 
free  as  air.  I  consider  the  thing  done  now,  and 
done  with."  Buondelmonte  looked  at  Piccarda, 
who  returned  his  gaze  steadily,  but  as  if  she  was 
troubled  at  something.  Her  eyes  searched  his  in 
pursuit  of  his  secret  thought,  then  turned  away; 
she  sighed  ever  so  lightly. 

"Why  do  you  sigh,  sweetheart?" 

"Because  I  am  in  love." 

"Will  you  sigh  when  I  wed  you?" 

"Ah,  no." 

"Why  not,  if  now  you  sigh?" 

"Because  then  I  shall  know  that  you  are  in  love 
also." 

163 


Tend   Jiapcntures 

He  took  her  on  his  knee,  and  caressed  her.  She 
spoke  no  more  until  he  urged  her  very  closely. 
Then  she  said:  "I  want  you.  I  have  no  rest  be- 
cause of  you.  Before  you  came  I  had  long  nights 
and  days.  But  now  day  and  night  I  think  of  you. 
I  am  wretched,  in  sore  need."  Buondelmonte  kiss- 
ed her.  Such  talk  was  very  pleasant  to  hear,  and 
made  him  wild  for  the  girl. 

Gualdrada,  looking  at  these  two,  one  caught  up 
on  the  knees  of  the  other,  laughed,  as  rich  people 
laugh.  And  when  Buondelmonte  asked  her,  "How 
soon  will  you  give  her  to  me,  Gualdrada?"  she 
knew  that  her  wages  were  in  her  hand,  and  said: 
"You  are  so  near  together  that  I  care  not  greatly 
to  delay  you.  To-morrow  you  shall  plight  her  with 
your  ring  at  San  Giovanni.  Thereafter  do  what 
you  will,  each  of  you  with  the  other." 

Buondelmonte  looked  at  Piccarda.  "If  I  do 
what  I  will  with  thee,  Piccarda?"  he  said,  asking. 

"That  will  be  what  I  will,"  said  Piccarda.  So 
he  kissed  her  again. 

On  the  morning  after  Buondelmonte  had  bro- 
ken his  news  to  Lambertuccio,  Oderigo  Fifanti 
happened  to  be  passing  San  Giovanni  about  the 
hour  of  terce  when  people  were  coming  out  from 
the  mass.  He  waited  to  watch  them  for  a  little, 
and  saw  Gualdrada  Donati  with  two  unwedded 
girls.  He  had  always  thought  her  to  have  but 
one  daughter,  whom  he  knew  quite  well  by  sight; 

164 


Buonddmontc's   Sadd 

but  this  other  he  had  never  seen  before.  She 
appeared  to  him  of  extraordinary  beauty,  danger- 
ous to  men.  He  was  so  much  taken  with  her 
that  when  she  had  passed  with  her  mother  and 
sister  he  went  into  the  church  to  consider  whether, 
at  his  age,  with  grown-up  sons  of  his  own,  he  might 
venture  upon  a  second  marriage.  It  would  be  that 
girl  or  none,  he  thought,  and  turned  it  over  and  over 
in  his  mind.  In  the  church  he  saw  a  young  man 
offering  candles  to  the  Virgin,  whose  make  and  shape 
seemed  familiar.  Puzzling  idly  over  this,  but  more 
concerned  with  his  late  encounter,  presently  the 
worshipper  turned  to  go  out,  and  Oderigo  saw  that 
it  was  Buondelmonte.  There  was  nothing  surpris- 
ing about  this,  since  San  Giovanni  was  the  church 
where  all  the  factions  of  his  way  of  thinking  heard 
mass  when  they  could ;  and  on  the  great  feasts  made 
a  point  of  taking  the  Communion.  There  had  been 
a  Communion  this  morning,  he  saw,  and  afterwards 
remembered.  Oderigo  greeted  Buondelmonte  and 
received  his  greeting;  but  they  said  nothing. 

When  he  came  out,  not  having  fully  made  up 
his  mind  what  to  do  about  the  girl  of  the  Donati, 
he  went  down  to  his  own  house,  and  heard  the 
news  about  the  Amidei  marriage.  Instantly  he 
connected  it  in  some  way  with  the  visit  of  Buondel- 
monte to  San  Giovanni  that  morning  and  his  offer 
of  candles  to  the  Virgin.  "He  has  had  a  vision  or 
a  warning,"  he  told  himself;  "that  is  about  the 
size  of  it.     He  has  been  expiating  a  vow,  or  seahng 

165 


Tend   Jiaoenturcs 

a  new  one;  or  he  was  giving  thanks  for  a  danger 
averted.  Now  what  will  Lambertuccio  do?  And 
our  kindreds?  I  must  go  down  to  Schiatta's  and 
find  out."     And  away  he  went. 

He  found  all  the  kindreds  assembled  in  the 
hall,  Schiatta  in  the  high  seat,  and  Lambertuccio 
finishing  an  oration  amid  murmurs  and  muttering 
from  the  others. 

"The  sum  of  the  matter,  Schiatta,"  Lambertuccio 
was  saying,  "is  that  I  cannot  feel  offended.  I 
believe  Buondelmonte  spoke  the  truth  when  he 
owned  that  he  would  rather  keep  his  kindred  sep- 
arate from  ours.  Either  he  thinks  himself  strong 
enough  without  the  Uberti,  or  he  fears  to  make 
the  Uberti  too  strong.  We  know  very  well  that 
he  is  wrong  in  the  first,  and  as  for  the  second, 
may  doubt  if  he  would  count  for  very  much.  But 
a  man  must  have  his  opinions.  Another  reason  of 
his  seems  to  be  that  Mosca  here  tried  to  pick  up  an 
old  settled  quarrel  again,  one  night  last  winter.  I 
will  not  say  whether  Mosca  did  well  to  blow  upon 
dead  embers;  but  it  was  not  a  friendly  act  to  me, 
and  Buondelmonte  was  reasonable  in  resenting  it. 
He  came  to  us  of  his  own  accord,  peace  upon  his 
tongue;  then  says  Mosca,  there  shall  be  no  peace 
between  you  and  me.  Well,  he  would  say,  then 
there  can  be  none  betwixt  me  and  your  kinsfolk. 
You  cannot  have  it  both  ways.  He  has  reason  on 
his  side,  I  say.  Now  Buondelmonte  will  pay 
forfeit  on  his  bond,  and  may  have  it  back  when  he 

i66 


Buondelmonlc's   Saga 

chooses  for  all  I  shall  say  against  it.  My  Cunizza 
will  wed  with  Malviso  Giant  ruff  etti  here,  a  good 
man  and  of  our  kindred ;  so  her  honor  will  be  saved ; 
all  the  city  will  believe  that  we  broke  off  the  match. 
This  is  all  I  have  to  say,  Schiatta,  about  the  affair." 
Mosca  de'  Lamberti  jumped  up  the  moment  he 
had  done.  "By  your  leave,  Schiatta,"  said  he,  "I 
will  answer  Lambertuccio  in  your  presence.  I  say 
that  it  is  well  for  Buondelmonte  that  Farinata  is 
tied  to  the  chair  at  Certaldo;  for  if  he  had  been 
here,  there  would  have  been  wild  work  in  the  street. 
And,  for  my  part,  I  am  not  sure  that  all  of  us 
Uberti  will  sleep  in  our  beds  this  night,  as  I  gather 
Lambertuccio  intends  to  sleep  in  his.  Better  had 
it  been  for  all  of  us  if  I  had  settled  accounts  with 
my  lord  Picker-and-Chooser  on  that  winter  night. 
He  had  not  lived  then,  perhaps,  to  toss  another  of 
the  Uberti  aside  after  a  little  trial.  Shall  I  tell 
you  now  why  I  had  my  words  with  Buondel- 
monte? You  think  that  I  bore  him  a  grudge  for 
a  very  old  affair?  You  wrong  me  there;  it  was 
just  the  opposite  of  that  was  the  case.  You  should 
remember  the  day  he  came  into  this  hall  on  his 
wife-buying  errand,  asking,  I'll  trouble  you  for 
one  of  the  chief's  daughters.  'I  come  for  a  wife, 
not  a  grandmother,'  says  my  young  lord.  That 
of  Schiatta's  lady,  look  you.  A  wife  he  needs,  not 
a  grandmother.  I  know  very  well  what  he  needs. 
Well,  then,  I  made  an  offer  on  my  own  account; 
and  Schiatta  upheld  it,  and  was  right,  since  I  am 

167 


Tend   JIdoenturcs 

his  next  in  degree.  Did  that  have  the  look  of  a 
grudge?  No,  indeed.  But  what  says  my  lord? 
'I  cannot  hope  to  satisfy  Mosca,'  are  his  words. 
Great  courtesy  to  me !  Oh,  the  finest  !  Who 
bears  the  grudge,  do  you  say  ?  He  is  pleased  to 
condescend  to  Lambertuccio's  proposals,  however, 
and  will  look  at  the  bride,  as  he  might  look  at  a 
horse  on  sale.  Vastly  pleasant  dealing,  signori,  as 
things  have  turned  out.  Now  that  is  why  I  picked 
a  quarrel  with  this  Butterfly  Squire,  who  thinks 
that  all  our  maidens'  lips  are  at  his  disposal.  And 
I  am  ready  for  another  when  and  how  you  please. 
Lambertuccio's  reasonings  and  reasonableness  are 
nothing  to  me.  Buondelmonte  sought  us  out, 
offering  himself:  now  he  throws  us  over.  Can 
we  bear  that,  we  who  are  lords  of  the  city  ?  I  say 
dishonor  is  done  to  our  name  and  blood." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  shouting  at  this,  and 
some  of  the  young  men  leaped  to  their  feet.  One 
raised  a  cry  of  "Death  to  him!"  But  Schiatta 
stopped  all  this  with  his  hand.  "Let  no  man  stir 
till  I  give  him  leave,"  said  he.  "There  must  be  no 
bloodshed  nor  house-burning  yet  awhile.  This 
quarrel  is  Lambertuccio's,  who,  if  he  is  satisfied, 
may  be  an  easy  man  to  satisfy;  I  say  nothing 
about  that.  But  I  say  that  Mosca  did  wrong  to 
offend  Buondelmonte  when  he  was  in  a  state  of 
becoming  my  kinsman,  and  is  chiefly  to  blame  in 
this  which  has  followed.  Had  I  been  Buondel- 
monte I  know  not  how  I  could  have  acted  other- 

i68 


Buondelmonte's   Saga 

wise.  Now  I  forbid  you,  Mosca,  to  move  sword 
or  tongue  against  Lambertuccio's  enemy  without 
his  sanction.  Let  this  be  a  warning  to  you  to  be 
civil,  and  not  to  take  more  upon  yourself  than 
your  friends  are  disposed  to  award  you.  Has  any 
man  else  anything  to  say  in  this  foolish  affair?" 

Oderigo  Fifanti  got  up.     "I  say,  Schiatta,  that 
Lambertuccio  is  right  in  his  surmises,  and  will  tell 
you  why.     This  morning,   happening  to  be  by,   I 
went  into  San  Giovanni,   and  saw  Buondelmonte 
there,  offering  candles   at  the  altar  of  the  Virgin. 
Fine  candles,  too,  seven  pounds  apiece  at  the  least. 
Now  this  is  no  great  feast-day,   as  we  all  know; 
therefore   he   must   have   gone  there  with   design, 
and  offered  his  candles  with  intention.     It  is  clear 
as   day  to  me  that   he   offered   either  because  of 
a  vow  he  had  made,  which  no  man  makes  except 
necessity  drive  him,  or  as  thanksgiving  for  a  danger 
escaped.     In    either    case,    it   seems,    he   is    to   be 
excused,  as  a  man  is  who  thinks  himself  warned 
by  God.      And  after  the  words  of  Mosca  de'  Lam- 
berti  it  is  not  hard  to  see  what  sort  of  danger  a 
quiet  man  has  escaped."     All  the  kinsmen  shouted 
their   laughter    at    this,    and    Oderigo    sat    himself 
down.     Malviso  Giantruffetti  also  said   something, 
modestly    and   becomingly   for   so   young    a   man; 
and  then  Buondelmonte  walked  into  the  hall,  alone 
and   unarmed,    and   courteously   saluted    Schiatta, 
Lambertuccio,  and   the   company  at  large.     There 
was  a  great  hush ;  but  all  could  see  that  he  bore  him- 

169 


Tend   Jidpcnturcs 

self  like  a  gentleman,  and  a  noble  gentleman.  His 
witnesses  came  after  him,  three  young  men — his 
brother  Ranieri,  Alberto  Giandonati,  and  one  of 
the  Gualterotti,  a  mere  lad  —  none  of  them  at  his 
ease  in  the  stronghold  of  the  Uberti. 

Schiatta,  who  sincerely  admired  him,  returned 
his  salutation,  and  said:  " Buondelmonte,  I  guess 
your  errand  and  am  sorry  for  it.  I  would  have  seen 
you  here  more  gladly  on  any  other;  or  if  this  is  the 
end  of  it,  could  wish  that  you  had  not  come  at  all. 

"I  can  well  believe  that,"  said  Buondelmonte; 
"but  when  a  man  is  told  that  he  must  lose  his  leg, 
he  does  not  say :  '  We  will  talk  about  it  next  week  ' ; 
but  rather,  'Hack  it  off  then,  and  have  done  with 
it.'  So  I,  being  forced  into  a  narrow  way,  make 
haste  to  get  out  even  at  the  price  of  things  which 
may  be  dear  to  me.  You  say  that  you  know  why 
I  have  come.  I  have  given  reasons  to  Lamber- 
tuccio,  which  I  hope  he  understands.  No  doubt 
he  has  told  them  to  you.  Now^  in  the  presence  of 
you  all,  his  kindred,  I  pay  the  forfeit  in  which  I 
stand  engaged,  and  will  take  my  bond  again. 
Further  satisfaction  I  offer  him  for  the  honor  of 
Monna  Cunizza  —  namely,  the  fifty  florins  which  I 
should  have  laid  down  for  Morgengabe.  This  seems 
to  be  justly  her  due,  since  I  believe  from  my  soul 
every  good  thing  of  her.  So  I  pay  it  now  in  your 
sight." 

"  It  is  greatly  done,"  said  Schiatta;  "  I  own  that." 
And  so  all  confessed  to  one  another  that  it  was. 

170 


Buonaeittionfc's   Saga 

Lambertuccio  said:  "Noble  offer  should  have 
noble  response.  I  shall  not  accept  from  Buondel- 
monte  more  than  is  my  due,  nor  money  for  that 
which  he  has  not  had.  This  Morgengabe  will  un- 
doubtedly be  paid  by  the.  satisfied  man,  and  it  must 
not  be  supposed  that  it  is  due  from  Buondelmonte. 
That  is  Malviso's  business  here,  to  whom  my  girl 
is  betrothed." 

"That  alters  the  case,"  said  Buondelmonte.  "I 
should  be  doing  Malviso  a  great  offence."  So  he 
took  back  his  purse  of  fifty  florins,  and  shortly 
after  withdrew,  he  and  his  witnesses. 

The  assembly  broke  up;  the  kindreds  left  the 
hall  upon  their  several  affairs;  but  Oderigo  Fifanti 
stayed  behind  for  a  talk  with  Schiatta  about  his 
own  affair  of  the  girl  of  the  Donati.  Schiatta  ad- 
vised him  against  it.  "This  is  an  idle  itch  of  yours," 
he  said,  "tending  neither  to  good  husbandry  nor 
good  comfort.  How  will  you  get  a  young  wife  to 
settle  down  with  your  sons,  who  are  themselves  old 
enough  to  marry  her?  Remember  the  grief  of 
Obizzo  of  Este,  whose  son  fell  in  love  with  his  step- 
mother, and  perished,  and  caused  her  to  perish, 
miserably.  Yet  you  are  not  to  blame  Obizzo  for 
maintaining  his  rights,  since  he  had  chosen  to  make 
them  so,  with  a  strong  hand.  Again,  the  Donati 
are  a  good  house,  I'll  not  deny,  though  not  so  good 
as  they  have  been,  and  no  friends  of  mine.  But 
mark  you  this,  when  the  hour  comes,  the  Donati 

171 


Tend    JIdocnfurcs 

will  be  on  one  side  of  the  ramparts  and  the  Uberti 
on  the  other.     This  must  infallibly  be." 

"The  same  would  have  been  true  of  the  Buondel- 
monti,  in  my  opinion,"  said  Oderigo. 

"  Buondelmonte  is  a  young  man,"  replied  Schiatta, 
"and  more  supple  than  the  Donati.  And  his  is  a 
growing  tree,  where  the  other  is  rotting  at  the 
heart.  I  warn  you  off  this  quest  of  yours,  kins- 
man." 

"Well,"  said  Oderigo,  "maybe  I  shall  not  take 
your  advice." 

"Oh,  if  you  confess  yourself  an  old  fool,  I  have 
nothing  more  to  say,"  Schiatta  answered.  To 
which  Oderigo  replied  with  heat  that  if  ever}'body 
was  a  fool  who  did  not  hold  Schiatta's  opinions, 
Florence  held  a  goodly  number  of  fools. 

"I  think  it  does,"  said  Schiatta,  "but  that  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  add  to  the  num- 
ber." 

"He  is  a  fool,"  said  Oderigo,  "who  follows  blind- 
ly where  another  leads  him.  Knowledge  of  this, 
and  not  profundity  of  wisdom,  makes  a  shepherd 
master  of  sheep." 

"Go  your  ways,  Oderigo,"  said  Schiatta,  "go 
your  ways.  Let  January  wed  young  May  if  he  can. 
But  let  not  January  quarrel  with  the  nature  of 
things  if  he  freeze  May  to  death,  or  May  fritter  him 
to  water  with  her  awakened  fires." 

"I  shall  certainly  try  my  fortune,"  said  Oderigo, 
"and  thank  you  for  your  friendly  warnings." 

172 


Buondclmonte's   Saga 

Buondelmonte,  who  had  a  journey  to  make,  laid 
out  his  fifty  florins  in  a  gold  crown,  the  finest  that 
money  could  buy  in  Florence  or  the  world.  It  was 
made  of  two  hoops  of  gold,  one  above  another, 
joined  together  by  flowers  in  red  and  white  enamel; 
above  was  a  garland  of  lilies  in  the  same  work,  with 
a  star  in  the  midst,  to  be  over  the  forehead,  and  in 
the  midst  of  that  again  an  emerald  of  large  size. 
He  took  it  to  the  house  of  the  Donati,  and  before 
he  left  her  that  night  set  it  upon  Piccarda's  head. 
"  Let  this  speak  to  thee  of  my  love  while  I  am  away. 
I  shall  come  soon,  my  dear  heart,"  said  he,  and  de- 
parted in  a  torment  of  love  by  no  means  allayed. 
Gualdrada  embraced  her  beautiful  daughter.  ''He 
is  bound  to  you,  my  child,  hand  and  foot.  Think 
not  that  by  giving  you  have  nothing  left  to  give. 
A  fine  skein  is  in  your  hand,  to  be  wound  as  you 
please.  Though  it  be  of  thin  silk,  it  will  drag  this 
man  to  heaven  or  hell."  Piccarda  had  nothing  to 
say ;  or  else  she  did  not  choose  to  speak  of  Buondel- 
monte. 

Gualdrada  heard  steps  upon  the  stair,  which  she 
thought  were  those  of  Forese  coming  in.  "Stay 
you  there,  Piccarda,"  she  said,  "and  let  your  father 
see  what  a  lordly  husband  you  have  won."  So  she 
sat  still  where  she  was,  looking  like  a  queen. 

Forese  came  into  the  chamber  with  Oderigo  Fi- 
fanti,  who,  when  he  saw  Piccarda  with  the  crown 
upon  her  head,  stayed  by  the  door  as  one  dazed. 
Forese  said:  "Wife,  here  is  Messer  Oderigo  come 

173 


Tond   jFiaoenturcs 

a-wooing,  wanting  our  Capuccia.  What  have  you 
to  say  to  that?" 

Gualdrada  made  a  Httle  demur;  her  head  was 
turned  by  the  happy  conduct  of  Piccarda's  affair, 
and  she  had  never  set  much  store  by  her  elder 
daughter.  It  would  have  to  be  considered,  she 
said;  there  was  much  to  be  said  for  and  against 
such  a  match;  and  then  to  Piccarda:  "Go  into 
your  closet  and  put  off  that  ornament  you  have 
on.  Your  father  shall  see  it  another  time."  Pic- 
carda got  up  to  go;  whereupon  Oderigo  recovered 
his  senses.  "Hold,"  he  said;  "you  have  my  story 
wrong,  Forese.  This  is  the  damsel  I  seek  for  a 
wife." 

"Bad  Easter  to  me,"  says  Forese,  "I  am  sorry 
for  that." 

Gualdrada  said:  "You  choose  your  words  strange- 
ly, husband.  Messer  Oderigo,  you  are  too  late. 
This  girl  of  mine  is  betrothed;  the  crown  she  wears 
now  is  a  wedding-gift  from  her  affianced.  Not 
every  damsel  hath  so  rich  an  offering  as  that.  But 
the  bridegroom  is  a  young  man,  of  an  age  with  her- 
self or  near  it,  and  well  found  in  goods,  as  you  see." 

"It  is  evident,"  said  Oderigo,  putting  the  best 
face  he  could  upon  it.  "There  cannot  be  many  of 
his  sort  in  Florence.    Might  a  man  know  his  name  ?" 

Forese  looked  at  his  wife,  doubtful  what  she 
would  have  him  do.  Gualdrada  made  haste  to 
answer. 

"Indeed,  there  would  be  every  reason  why  you 

174 


Buondelmontc's   Saga 

should  know,'  and  sooner  than  most,"  she  said. 
"But  this  is  the  true  state  of  the  case;  the  bride- 
groom has  gone  to  Siena  on  business  of  some  mo- 
ment for  himself  and  the  state.  Lest  any  shame 
should  fall  upon  our  daughter  by  failure  of  his,  or 
accident,  or  any  such  thing — ^which  God  mercifully 
avert! — he  has  charged  me  to  withhold  his  name 
and  the  betrothal  itself  until  he  is  happily  back. 
But  you  have  surprised  us  out  of  one  of  these, 
through  no  fault  of  your  own  or  of  mine." 

"Your  secret  is  safe  with  me,"  said  Oderigo; 
"but  indeed  you  have  found  a  tender  bridegroom, 
singular  in  Florence  on  every  account." 

"You  may  be  sure  that  he  is,"  said  Gualdrada. 

After  a  few  courteous  speeches  Oderigo,  having 
no  further  errand  with  the  Donati,  departed.  He 
owned  himself  for  a  fool;  but  for  all  that  he  was 
greatly  puzzled  at  the  mystery.  Meeting  by  chance 
with  Mosca  de'  Lamberti  as  he  crossed  the  New 
Market,  he  clean  forgot  his  assurance  of  secrecy, 
and  told  him  the  whole  of  the  story,  except  the  part 
he  himself  had  played  in  it.  Mosca  said  at  once: 
"I  met  Buondelmonte  on  the  bridge  even  now,  on 
the  Siena  road.  What  if  he  were  your  man  ?  What 
then,  my  friend?" 

At  once  it  jumped  into  Oderigo's  mind  that  he 
had  seen  Buondelmonte  that  morning  in  San 
Giovanni,  offering  candles  to  the  Virgin,  and  that 
in  the  same  church  had  been  Gualdrada  Donati  and 
her  daughter.     The  remembrance  of  this,  and  the 

175 


Tend   JIdocnturcs 

thought  of  what  it  involved,  flushed  him  all  over; 
but  knowing  Mosca  for  a  pickstrife,  a  mischievous 
man,  he  said  nothing  about  it.  It  might  have  been 
an  accident,  and  the  offering  made  for  safety  on 
his  journey.  So  also  there  might  have  been  the 
Communion  there  and  yet  neither  Buondelmonte 
nor  Piccarda  have  communicated.  But  if  there 
were  no  accidents  at  all,  and  everything  had  been 
as  it  looked,  then  the  Uberti  were  very  much  offend- 
ed. Lambertuccio  must  then  be  told,  and  Schiatta. 
While  he  thought  of  all  this,  Mosca  clapped  him 
on  the  shoulder.  "We  are  two  fools,"  he  said. 
"There  is  but  one  man  can  make  such  a  gold  crown 
as  that.  He  is  Lapo  of  Lucca.  We  will  soon  have 
the  Donati  secret  in  our  hands." 

Lapo  the  garland-maker,  who  lived  by  the  bridge, 
made  no  secret  of  his  part  in  the  traffic.  It  had 
been  Buondelmonte  who  had  bought  the  crown  this 
very  morning.  Mosca  and  Oderigo  looked  at  each 
other  without  saying  anything.  By  the  Piazza  of 
San  Stefano  they  were  about  to  separate,  when 
Oderigo  took  Mosca  by  the  arm,  and  held  him  fast, 
saying  nothing. 

"Let  me  go,  cousin,"  said  Mosca,  struggling;  "I 
have  business." 

Oderigo  was  no  coward,  to  shrink  from  a  quarrel 
or  many  quarrels;  but  he  was  a  serious  man,  who 
considered  fighting  a  serious  business;  and  he  saw 
that  such  fighting  as  might  now  be  on  hand  would 
be  no  ordinary  scuffle.     So  he  held  on  to  Mosca  by 

176 


Buondclmontc's   Saga 

his  gown.  "By  Jesus  Christ,  Mosca,"  he  said,  "you 
shall  tell  me  to  whom  is  your  business.  For  I  see 
that  it  lies  in  a  different  direction  from  that  in 
which  it  lay  when  I  first  met  you." 

"Let  me  go,  Oderigo,"  he  said  again.  "I  am 
not  bound  to  tell  you  of  my  affairs." 

"But  this  affair  is  mine  as  well  as  yours;  so  I 
mean  to  have  it  out  of  you." 

Mosca  looked  this  way  and  that  with  his  one 
quick  eye — up  at  Oderigo,  who  was  looking  at  the 
men  in  the  river  drawing  their  nets  below  the  weir ; 
down  at  his  feet;  about  and  about.  "Well,"  he  said 
at  last,  "there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  tell 
you.     I  am  going  to  Schiatta's." 

"Then  you  may  go,"  said  Oderigo.  If  he  had 
said  "To  Lambertuccio's,"  Oderigo  would  have 
forced  him  to  silence;  but  he  cared  little  what  he 
said  to  Schiatta,  because  he  knew  nothing  positive, 
and  Schiatta  would  see  that  it  amounted  to  nothing. 
A  man  is  at  liberty  to  plight  himself  with  a  w^oman 
when  he  has  broken  his  plight  to  another,  but  not 
until.  Now  Oderigo  knew  ver\^  well,  but  Mosca 
did  not,  that  Buondelmonte  must  have  been  with 
this  girl  long  before.  Therefore  he  had  insulted  the 
Amidei.  But  whether  Lambertuccio  would  choose 
to  avenge  his  own  injuries  or  to  share  his  rights 
with  the  Uberti,  he  was  not  yet  sure. 

He  went  to  the  Amidei  house  and  told  Lamber- 
tuccio the  whole  case,  not  concealing  from  him  his 
own   share   in   it.     Lambertuccio   listened   without 

177 


movement  or  sign,  save  that  his  face  took  a  darker 
tinge,  and  that  this  tinge  was  darkest  at  his  neck. 
At  the  end  he  said: 

"If  this  is  true,  as  fate  seems  to  have  it,  he  must 
die.     No  doubt  of  that." 

"If  you  are  for  that  work,"  said  Oderigo,  "I  shall 
stand  in  with  you.  For  you  are  not  the  only  man 
offended." 

"As  you  please,"  said  Lambertuccio.  "I  need 
no  help  from  any  man.  You  brought  your  trouble 
on  yourself.  At  your  time  of  life,  he  who  goes 
running  after  maids  unwed  deserves  what  he  gets. 
My  case  is  very  different.    I  shall  kill  Buondelmonte. ' ' 

Oderigo  said:  "He  will  be  in  Siena  by  to-morrow 
night;  it  could  be  done  very  handsomely  there. 
Any  of  the  Tolomei  would  do  it.  Or  Farinata 
could  arrange  it  easily  for  you  from  Certaldo." 

"It  will  be  done  very  handsomely  here,  you  will 
find,"  said  Lambertuccio  quietly.  "There  is  plenty 
of  time.  But  I  have  just  supped,  and  this  is  the 
hour  at  which  I  usually  sleep.  Forgive  me,  and 
many  thanks." 

"You  will  let  me  know  when  you  are  ready?" 
said  Oderigo. 

"Certainly.     There  is  plenty  of  time." 

"Good  repose  to  you,  Lambertuccio." 

"  Many  thanks." 

Schiatta  heard  Mosca's  story,  and  put  his  finger 
on  the  weak  spot  at  once.     "A  man  freed  is  a  free 

178 


Buondelmontc's   Saga 

man,"  he  said,"  and  not  less  free  for  being  that 
moment  free.  Buondelmonte  may  have  known  the 
Donati  girl  before,  or  he  may  not.  He  has  acted 
within  the  letter  of  his  rights.  You  cannot  prove 
anything  against  him,  and  you  cannot  touch  him." 

"Your  son  Farinata  would  touch  him,"  said 
Mosca. 

"My  son  Farinata  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind," 
Schiatta  replied.     "You  know  very  little  about  it." 

But  afterwards,  when  Lambertuccio  came  with 
his  new  story,  Schiatta  saw  differently.  "If  this 
is  the  state  of  the  case,"  he  said,  "the  family  is 
grievously  offended — no  less  with  the  Donati  than 
with  Buondelmonte,  except  in  this,  that  the  Donati 
have  always  been  open  enemies.  But  the  other 
came  to  us  unasked,  professing  the  need  of  alliance. 
Black  treachery.  Our  name  cannot  endure  this, 
Lambertuccio.  I  must  certainly  interfere.  And 
it  is  a  good  occasion,  after  all,  for  what  we  have 
in  the  back  of  our  minds.  For  if  we  go  sagely 
to  work,  I  don't  know  why  we  should  have  an 
enemy  left  in  Florence." 

Lambertuccio  said:  "You  are  head  of  the  house. 
Do  as  you  think  proper.  The  quarrel  is  certainly 
mine  first  of  all — but  do  as  you  think  proper." 

"I  shall  call  a  council  of  the  kindreds,"  said 
Schiatta;  "that  is  what  I  shall  do." 

They  all  came  together  in  the  hall  of  the  Uberti ; 
Lambertuccio   and   Oderigo,   the   Infangati,   Mosca 

179 


Tend   Jidpcnturcs 

de'  Lamberti,  the  Caponsacchi  and  Gangalandi,  and 
Ruggiero  Giantrufifetti  with  his  son  Malviso,  who 
was  to  marry  Cunizza. 

Oderigo  Fifanti,  when  called  upon,  confirmed  his 
story.  He  said  that  he  agreed  with  Lambertuccio 
that  the  Amidei  were  chiefly  concerned  in  the  quar- 
rel ;  but  he  considered  that  he  came  next  on  account 
of  his  private  intentions  towards  the  girl.  He 
should  stand  by  Lambertuccio  in  whatever  he 
should  chose  to  do. 

There  were  cries  for  Lambertuccio  degli  Amidei. 
He  rose  unwillingly,  and  said  little.  "It  is  dis- 
tasteful to  me  to  speak  of  my  private  affairs,  and 
by  your  leave  I  shall  not.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  what  I  ought  to  do;  if  possible,  and  Heaven 
on  my  side,  I  shall  perform  it.  I  speak  as  a  man, 
father  of  a  maiden  wronged,  not  as  kinsman  of  any 
other.  If,  however,  you  push  your  claims  upon 
me,  as  being  of  my  blood  or  intimacy  or  some  such, 
I  shall  not  refuse  you.  Forgive  me;  I  am  little  of 
a  speaker  at  these  times." 

Mosca  de*  Lamberti  spoke  next,  not  fiercely,  but 
moderately  and  with  show  of  reason.  "There  are 
two  things  to  do,"  he  said,  "which  equally  become 
us.  Firstly,  we  must  stand  by  our  offended  kins- 
man; secondly,  we  must  seek  the  benefit  of  the 
whole  name  and  blood.  Now,  as  to  the  first,  it  is 
plain  what  we  ought  to  do;  but  the  second,  to  my 
thinking,  is  no  less  easy.  It  is.  To  do  the  first.  I 
am  not  the  only  man  to  say  what  I  say  now,  that 

i8o 


Buondelmontc's    Saga 

a  thing  done  is  done  with.  Buondelmonte  said 
those  very  words  to  me  upon  a  time.  But  I  tell 
you  now,  a  thing  done  is  done  with.  If  we  act  with 
Lambertuccio  in  his  quarrel,  we  act  justly,  paying 
our  debts.  If  anything  follows  upon  that,  it  will 
have  been  begun  by  those  who  have  thought  them- 
selves injured  by  what  we  may  have  done.  We  can 
be  ready  to  meet  them,  and  more  than  half-way. 
Therefore,  by  doing  what  is  in  your  right  you  bring 
that  to  be  done  which  is  within  your  desire;  and 
it  will  be  done  in  the  course  of  nature,  without  any 
seeking  of  ours  or  show  of  design.  Do  you  wish 
the  Florentines  to  say  to  each  other,  "These  Uberti 
use  a  private  grudge  to  make  a  tyranny  over  us  "  ? 
That  will  breed  a  maggot  of  discontent  and  turn 
the  whole  city  into  fermentation.  No,  no.  But  if 
the  friends  of  the  Buondelmonti,  all  the  kindreds  in 
the  Borgo  and  San  Pancrazio,  and  all  the  Donati 
and  their  likes,  draw  sword  upon  us  and  seek  pub- 
licly to  requite  what  we  have  privately  and  most 
justly  performed,  they  put  themselves  in  the  wrong, 
signori;  they  themselves  pick  the  quarrel.  We  de- 
fend ourselves;  we  are  in  the  right  from  the  begin- 
ning; our  advantage  flows  naturally,  like  Amo  from 
Falterona.  This  is  my  sentence,  kinsmen.  A 
thing  done  is  done  with.  Let  them  begin  a  new 
thing  if  they  choose." 

Schiatta  said  at  once:  "Upon  my  soul  and  con- 
science, I  am  in  a  case  I  never  was  in  before,  to 
agree   with   Mosca  here.     My   first   counsel   would 

i8i 


Tend   Jia^cnturcs 

have  been  for  war  on  all  these  houses;  but  he  is 
right.  Now  let  us  send  the  lads  away  and  settle 
matters  between  us.  Let  Malviso,  however,  re- 
main, since  he  is  a  party  to  the  quarrel."  This 
was  done.  Lambertuccio  and  Mosca,  Oderigo  Fi- 
fanti,  Leone  Gangalandi,  Malviso  Giant  rufietti, 
kept  their  places  beside  Schiatta.  Lambertuccio 
would  not  talk,  and  Oderigo  said  nothing  new; 
Malviso  was  timid;  Schiatta  and  Mosca  settled 
everything.  Farinata  was  to  be  written  to  at 
Certaldo.  He  was  to  watch  for  Buondelmonte 
upon  the  road  home  from  Siena,  at  Poggibonsi 
where  the  fork  begins,  and  send  a  messenger  with 
word  of  his  coming.  If  the  man  went  over  the 
hills,  by  Torre  in  Val  di  Pesa,  he  would  gain  three 
hours  on  Buondelmonte.  The  six  Uberti  would 
wait  for  him  in  the  church  of  San  Stefano,  and  go 
out  to  the  bridge-end  and  meet  him.  He  would 
probably  be  unarmed,  at  least  without  mail,  be- 
cause he  would  be  going  to  the  Donati.  Mosca 
said  that  this  was  certain,  because  a  man  does  not 
give  his  betrothed  a  gold  crown  unless  she  has  some- 
thing to  give  him  in  return.  No  doubt  that  he  was 
mad  for  her.  When  they  were  all  agreed,  and  on 
the  point  of  going  away,  young  Malviso,  with  a 
very  troubled  face,  said  that  he  could  have  no  part 
in  it.  Schiatta  stared  up  at  the  rafters.  "What 
does  this  mean?"  he  said.  "Treachery,"  said 
Mosca. 

Malviso  stammered  out  his  meaning  as  well  as 

182 


Buondclmonfc's   $ddd 

he  could.  Here  was  an  unarmed  man,  lightly  ac- 
companied, upon  whom  were  to  set  six  with  weap- 
ons in  their  hands,  and  counsel  in  their  heads,  and 
half  the  city  at  their  backs.  ' 

"Well,"  said  Mosca,  "how  many  more  do  you 
want  to  help  you?"  Malviso  took  no  notice,  but 
looked  at  Schiatta. 

"I  am  concerned  in  this,  sir,"  he  said,  "since  I 
am  to  marry  the  offended  lady.  But  certainly  I 
could  not  have  married  her  if  she  had  not  been 
offended  by  Buondelmonte.  So  it  seems  that  he 
has  by  no  means  offended  me,  but  served  me  rather." 

"What!"  cried  Mosca,  twitching  his  arms;  "by 
insulting  your  lady?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Lambertuccio ;  "you  are  too  sharp 
with  the  lad.  It  is  easy  to  see  what  he  means.  So 
long  as  this  is  my  quarrel,  it  is  not  his.  He  has  my 
consent  to  stand  out." 

"And  mine  also,"  Schiatta  said.  "I  consider  his 
feelings  only  right  and  proper,  though  they  are  far 
from  being  mine." 

"Or  mine,  either,"  said  Mosca,  "luckily  for  us." 

They  all  went  their  ways. 

Buondelmonte  settled  the  affairs  of  the  commune 
with  which  he  had  been  intrusted,  and  his  own; 
then  he  sent  word  to  his  friends  that  he  should  be 
in  Florence  on  the  morning  of  Easter,  and  started 
on  Good-Friday  night.  He  reached  Poggibonsi  and 
slept  there. 

183 


t^ond   Jidpcnturcs 

Next  morning,  as  he  came  out  of  Poggibonsi, 
Farinata  degli  Uberti  saw  him  from  a  good  way 
off,  and  said  immediately  to  a  young  man  with 
him,  "Off  you  go."  The  young  man  departed  at 
once  on  foot,  more  fleetly  than  any  horse  could 
have  fared  in  such  a  country,  and  as  long  in  the 
wind.  Farinata  himself  waited  to  see  how  Buon- 
delmonte  was  accompanied,  and  saw  to  his  great 
surprise  that  he  was  alone.  It  came  into  his  heart 
for  a  moment  to  warn  him  of  his  danger,  so  that 
he  might  at  least  make  a  show  to  fight.  Two 
grooms  would  have  been  something,  with  his  own 
long  sword.  While  he  was  turning  it  over,  think- 
ing it  a  shame  that  a  fine  man  should  be  killed  like 
a  pig  in  a  sty,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  that  it  was 
no  business  of  his,  he  saw  that  Buondelmonte  had 
observed  him.  It  would  not  do  to  make  off  now. 
So  he  stayed. 

Buondelmonte  greeted  him,  wishing  him  a  good 
Easter.     Farinata  smiled. 

"You  too  look  for  a  good  Easter,  I  expect, 
Buondelmonte,"   he   said. 

Yes,  Buondelmonte  said,  he  thought  it  might 
prove  the  best  in  his  life. 

Farinata,  looking  at  him,  said,  "I  should  hope 
that  the  more  heartily  if  you  had  not  put  a  hitch 
in  our  affairs." 

"I  am  sorry  to  confess  that  I  did,"  said  Buondel- 
monte. "I  did  not  behave  well,  but  I  behaved  as 
well  as  I  could.     Look,    Farinata,  you    and    I    are 

184 


Buondelmontc's   Saga 

nearly  of  an  age,  so  that  I  can  expect  you  to  under- 
stand me  when  I  tell  you  this.  I  saw  Monna  Pic- 
carda  by  chance,  and  her  extraordinary  beauty 
troubled  me  not  a  little.  Also  I  admit  that  the 
dowry  she  brought  with  her  was  a  very  fine  thing, 
much  better  than  Cunizza  would  have  had.  But 
both  of  these  advantages  would  have  been  got  over. 
I  have  had  my  share  of  them,  and  still  have.  Do 
you  know  what  inflamed  me  to  such  a  pitch  that 
I  knew  I  could  not  live  without  Piccarda  ?  It  was 
this,  that  when  I  kissed  her  for  the  first  time,  she 
kissed  me  back.  Ah,  and  earnestly.  Do  you  not 
see,  my  friend,  that  she  gave  me  her  heart  there 
on  her  mouth.  I  have  no  words  ready  to  exhibit 
my  thought  or  understanding,  but  I  was  touched 
very  nearly  by  that,  and  on  a  quick  spot.  I  could 
not  tell  Lambertuccio  all  this,  still  less  your  father 
Schiatta;  but  I  may  tell  you." 

"I  understand  you,"  said  Farinata.  Then  he 
sighed:  "It  is  a  pity." 

"Yes,"  Buondelmonte  said,  "it  is  a  pity;  but  I 
can  see  a  greater  pity  avoided.  For  say  that  I  had 
been  wedded  to  Cunizza  before  I  had  met  Piccarda, 
it  would  have  made  no  difference.  What  is  was 
bound  to  be.  And,  to  my  thinking,  that  would 
have  been  more  shameful  in  me  than  what  I  have 
done." 

"Maybe,"  said  Farinata.     "Who  knows?" 

"I  have  mentioned  this  to  nobody,"  Buondel- 
monte said;  "and  shall  rely  upon  your  confidence." 
13  185 


"You  have  it.  Rest  assured  of  that,"  said  Fari- 
nata.     "But  I  am  keeping  you  from  your  way." 

"I  have  a  good  horse,"  Buondelmonte  said, 
"which  will  take  me  to  the  Impruneta  by  night- 
fall. I  shall  find  my  servants  and  baggage,  and 
sleep  there.  It  will  not  do  to  go  to  see  my  be- 
loved in  a  suit  of  sweat  and  mire." 

Buondelmonte  rode  on  his  way.  He  felt  much 
more  at  ease  since  he  had  unburdened  himself  to 
Farinata,  and  began  to  sing  a  song  he  had  learned 
in  Siena.  Folgore  of  San  Gimigiano  had  made  it. 
It  was  a  good  song. 

Farinata's  messenger  reached  Schiatta  very  late 
on  the  eve  of  Easter,  but  Schiatta  judged  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  Buondelmonte's  coming  in 
that  night.  He  put  men  on  the  lookout,  one  by 
the  Certosa  and  another  at  Porta  Romana;  and 
then  he  went  to  bed.  The  kindreds  were  informed; 
bidden  to  assemble,  those  who  were  concerned,  in 
the  church  of  San  Stefano  in  time  for  the  first  mass. 

In  the  morning  twilight  young  Malviso  Giant- 
ruffetti's  heart  misgave  him.  He  had  not  slept 
much  all  night  for  thinking  of  the  work  on  hand, 
and  wondering  what  he  ought  to  do.  "  He  has  done 
me  a  service,  he  has  done  me  a  service,"  were  the 
words  running  in  his  head;  and  then  he  thought: 
"What  harm  will  there  be  if  I  do  him  a  service  in 
my  turn?  Let  him  at  least  make  a  fight  of  it." 
With  the  earliest  light,   unable  to  endure  himself 

i86 


Buondelttiontc'$   Saga 

any  longer,  he  put  on  his  clothes  and  a  cloak,  and 
went  out  of  the  house  without  disturbing  any  one 
in  it.  The  streets  were  empty;  but  he  knew  the 
gates  would  be  open  by  the  time  he  reached  them. 
He  crossed  by  the  Rubaconte  bridge  for  fear  of 
being  seen  by  Schiatta's  outposts,  and  picked  up 
the  Siena  road  at  a  point  below  the  Certosa.  Not 
knowing  where  Buondelmonte  had  lain  that  night, 
he  went  too  far  and  overshot  him;  but  he  found 
out  his  mistake  before  he  got  to  San  Casciano,  stole 
a  horse  there,  and  pelted  back  the  way  he  had 
come.  Such  good  pace  did  he  get  out  of  the  horse 
that  he  was  again  on  the  Rubaconte  before  the  bell 
of  the  Badia  had  struck  for  terce.  But  he  had  not 
caught  Buondelmonte  for  all  that,  and  now  dared 
not  go  to  look  for  him,  for  he  knew  he  must  be  in 
or  near  the  city.  So  he  held  his  horse  by  the  rein, 
and  leaned  upon  the  one  bridge,  in  the  angle  of  one 
of  the  little  chapels  which  used  to  be  there,  looking 
over  to  the  other.  It  was  a  fine  morning,  with 
verv'  clear  air  and  sunlight.  At  first  he  saw  peas- 
ants coming  in,  by  twos  and  threes,  to  the  mass  of 
the  Resurrection;  but  by-and-by  a  horseman  at  a 
foot-pace,  and  he  came  from  Over-Arno.  He  looked 
immediately  to  the  foot  of  the  bridge  and  all  about 
the  old  Por'  Santa  Maria,  which  stood  there  in  those 
days,  but  could  see  no  men  there.  "  If  that  is  Buon- 
delmonte, he  will  get  over  yet,"  he  said  to  himself. 
But  then  he  saw  that  it  was  not  Buondelmonte, 
but  a  much  older  man.     The  Badia  bell  rang,  and 

187 


Tona    Jldocnturc$ 

the  sound  was  taken  up  by  Santa  Reparata  and  San 
Piero  Maggiore,  by  San  Frediano  Over-Amo  and 
other  towers;  and  then  he  saw  two  men  come  at  a 
trot  through  the  gateway  and  pass  over  the  bridge, 
going  to  Over-Amo.  One  was  in  green  and  bare- 
headed ;  the  other  wore  a  hood.  He  heard  the  green 
rider  laugh  and  the  other  reprove  him,  the  air  was 
so  still.  "That  is  a  boy,"  he  said.  "That  will  be 
Gualtiero  Gualterotti  going  to  meet  his  cousin.  The 
other  has  the  air  of  Ranieri  Buondelmonte,  but  I 
can't  be  sure.     So  they  expect  him." 

Not  long  after  the  riders  had  gone  by  he  saw 
a  party  of  men  come  slowly  round  the  buttress  of 
the  old  gateway.  He  counted  them;  there  were 
four,  two  in  cloaks  and  two  without.  I  f  they  were 
the  Uberti,  there  should  be  a  fifth  man:  where  was 
he  ?  He  soon  saw  that  they  were  the  Uberti.  He 
knew  Lambertuccio  by  his  height,  and  Mosca  by 
his  stooping  shoulders,  and  head  incessantly  on  the 
move;  and  Leone  Gangalandi  by  a  white  eagle's  tail- 
feather  he  was  fond  of  wearing.  The  fourth  must 
be  Oderigo  Fifanti,  because  he  seemed  to  feel  the 
wind ;  he  kept  his  cloak  high  up  round  his  ears.  He 
saw  them,  turn:  then  Schiatta  degli  Uberti  joined 
them.  His  head  was  bare,  as  usual  with  him.  They 
all  talked  together.  He  saw  Mosca  drive  away  a 
cripple  who  came  whining  about,  with  his  hands 
held  out  over  his  crutches.  Various  people  passed 
in  one  direction  or  the  other  over  the  Vjridge.  Pres- 
ently Leone  Gangalandi  went  through  the  gate  at 

i88 


Buondclmontc's   Saga 

1  brisk  run,  and  the  others  waited  about.  Ten 
Tiinutes  or  more  passed  in  this  way,  Oderigo  taking 
;harp  turns  up  and  down  the  bridge,  Mosca  leaning 
)ver  to  look  at  the  water,  Lambertuccio  quite 
iiotionless,  and  Schiatta  looking  up  at  the  sculpt- 
ires  on  the  gate.  Malviso  wondered  what  was 
i^oing  on.  Leone  Gangalandi  came  back  with  half 
I  dozen  men  on  horseback,  who  went  over  the 
)ridge,  while  he  himself  stayed  with  his  friends. 
'I  see  the  game  now,"  said  Malviso  to  himself; 
'these  will  go  to  detach  Gualtiero  and  Ranicri,  so 
;hat  Buondelmonte  can  be  dealt  with  separately. 
Phis  is  a  bad  business." 

As   the   day   wore,   so   increased   the   number  of  > 

hose  coming  and  going  over  the  bridge ;  but  it  was  '\ 

;till  easy  to  observe  the  riders.  Malviso  saw  one 
;uch    come    leading    a   pack-horse,    and    then    two  v 

)thers,  also  leading  horses.     They  wore  green  jack-  f. 

!ts.     He    guessed    that    they    might    be    Buondcl-  'j 

nonte's    servants;    but    whoever    thev    were,    they  s! 

)assed    over   unmolested    and    seemed    to    suspect  -^ 

lothing.  When  the  last  of  them  was  through  the 
;ate,  Oderigo  Fifanti  took  off  his  cloak,  and  Lam- 
)ertuccio  followed  his  example.  They  folded  the 
wo  cloaks  together  and  put  them  into  the  empty  -'■ 

jate-house.  There  was  shadow  on  the  east  side  of 
he  bridge  where  they  were  standing.     Malviso  saw  , 

)derigo  Fifanti  cross  over  and  stand  in  the  sun.  ; 

^e  hated  the  cold.  li 

A  drove  of  pigs  appeared  on   the  bridge,   from 

189 


fond   Jldocntures 

Over-Arno.  Their  herd  ran  backwards  and  for- 
wards, beating  with  his  stick  to  get  them  together. 
Malviso  saw  that  the  pigs  were  all  over  the  bridge, 
and  was  wondering  what  would  happen  if  Buondel- 
nionte  should  come  up  behind  them,  when  the  herd 
stopped,  looked  round,  then  threw  up  his  hand  for 
a  signal,  and  began  beating  the  pigs  to  one  side.  A 
white  horse,  having  a  rider  all  in  white,  came  at  a 
quick  trot  on  to  the  bridge,  followed  by  a  party  of 
seven  or  eight  at  least.  "Here  is  their  man,"  said 
Malviso  to  himself.  "Ser  Martino  drives  pigs  to 
the  shambles,  and  these  horsemen  drive  Buondel- 
monte.  If  I  could  stop  him  even  now,  I  would  do 
it."  He  stood  up  on  the  balustrade  of  the  bridge 
and  waved  his  hand,  shouting,  "  Back,  Buondel- 
monte,  back!"  Three  or  four  times  he  shouted 
thus,  and  at  the  fourth  time  Buondelmonte,  who 
was  riding  very  fast,  turned  his  head.  Malviso 
went  on  shouting  and  signalling;  then  Buondel- 
monte called  out  clearly  over  the  water,  "Buona 
Pasqua,"  and  lifted  his  hand.  He  rode  on,  his 
companions  about  ten  yards  behind.  Malviso  saw 
that  the  waiting  men  had  come  out  and  were  stand- 
ing in  the  gateway  at  the  end  of  the  bridge,  blocking 
the  passage.  Buondelmonte  reined  up  for  fear  of 
being  into  them;  and  Lambertuccio  walked  out 
slowly  to  meet  him. 

To  return  to  Buondelmonte.     He  had  started  be- 
times from  the   Impruneta,   and  made   such  good 

190 


Buondclmontc's    Saga 

pace  that  he  met  his  friends  well  on  this  side  of 
the  Certosa.  He  had  on  clothes  to  suit  the  feast- 
day,  a  long  tunic  of  white  velvet,  with  white  hose 
and  boots  of  red  leather,  a  white  bonnet  on  his 
head,  and  a  short  cloak.  He  had  no  arms  but  his 
dagger.  Very  glad  he  was  to  see  his  brother 
Ranieri,  and  still  more  that  Gualtiero  Gualterotti 
had  come,  for  he  loved  that  boy;  but  he  would  not 
stop  or  slow  down,  though  he  was  all  agog  for  news. 
They  had  to  talk  as  best  they  could.  He  said  he 
should  go  directly  to  the  house  of  the  Donati.  "It 
is  full  six  weeks  since  I  have  seen  my  beloved  Won- 
der of  the  World,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  on  fire  to 
learn  what  new  beauties  she  has  grown  by  now." 
Thev  told  him  that  Cunizza  was  to  wed  with  Malviso 
Giantruffetti  the  next  day.  "The  gentle  Cunizza!" 
said  he.  "It  is  only  proper  she  should  have  the 
start  of  me.  She  has  a  worthy  youth  for  her  hus- 
band. I  have  a  good  deal  of  friendship  for  Malviso." 
Talking  of  this,  that,  and  the  other,  they  came  into 
the  Via  Romana  by  the  gate,  and  there  the  young 
men  whom  Malviso  had  seen  met  them,  as  if  com- 
ing round  by  the  steep  road  which  leads  from  San 
Miniato  al  Monte  by  the  Porta  San  Giorgio.  Two 
of  these  were  Uberti,  one  a  Gangalandi,  one  was  of 
the  Greci.  Buondelmonte  and  his  friends  greeted 
them  and  would  have  gone  on  their  way;  but  Ta- 
cuino  degli  Uberti  called  out  that  he  had  a  message. 
"For  me?"  asked  Buondelmonte.  "No,"  said 
Tacuino,  "for  your  brother."     So  Ranieri  stopped, 

191 


Tend   Jld^enture$ 

and  was  overtaken  by  two  or  three  of  these  men, 
who  held  him  in  talk  while  the  rest  of  them  pushed 
forward,  and  got  in  between  Gualtiero  and  Buondel- 
monte,  talking  and  laughing  among  themselves. 
Buondelmonte  kept  up  his  pace.  Thus  they  came 
to  the  bridge  and  into  the  sun,  and  crossed  it,  just 
as  Malviso  had  seen  them. 

The  sun  was  full  in  Buondelmonte's  eyes;  but  as 
he  neared  the  Stone  of  Mars  and  the  old  gateway 
he  could  see  that  there  were  people  in  the  road,  not 
to  distinguish  them.  He  reined  in  his  horse  and 
put  his  hand  up  as  a  warning  to  the  others;  and 
just  then  Lambertuccio  came  out  to  meet  him, 
with  a  hand  to  take  hold  of  his  bridle;  and  he  saw 
who  it  was.  Now  he  began  to  suspect  something. 
"Stay  me  not  now,  Lambertuccio,"  he  said,  and 
turned  quickly  to  see  where  his  friends  were.  They 
seemed  to  be  in  some  difficulty,  he  thought.  The 
horses  were  all  huddled  together.  He  heard  Ra- 
nieri  talking  in  a  rage  and  the  others  laughing  at 
him.  Then  Schiatta  came  up  behind  him  as  he 
sat  half  turned,  and  jumped  for  him,  and  pulled 
him  suddenly  from  his  horse  to  the  ground;  and 
Mosca  leapt  forward  from  behind  Schiatta  and 
stuck  his  knife  in  deep.  He  stabbed  between  the 
collar-bone  and  the  neck.  Buondelmonte  cried  out, 
"Rescue!  Rescue!"  and  felt  himself  losing  blood 
very  fast.  "One  at  a  time,"  he  said,  pleasantly; 
but  had   no  more  words,   for  Mosca  stabbed   him 

192 


Buondelmcntc's    Saga 

a'gain,  and  Lambertuccio  came  up  in  his  deliberate 
wav,  pulled  off  Mosca,  and  put  his  knee  on  Buondel- 
monte's  neck  and  drove  at  him  twice  in  the  heart. 
He  never  spoke  again;  but  Oderigo  Fifanti  did  his 
part  for  all  that. 

A  crowd  of  onlookers  had  gathered,  but  no  one 
interfered;  and  as  for  Ranieri  and  Gualtiero,  they 
were  prisoners  and  cotdd  do  nothing.  When  the 
Uberti  saw  that  their  work  was  done,  they  wiped 
their  daggers  and  walked  away.  Oderigo  went  for 
his  cloak;  but  Lambertuccio  had  to  be  reminded 
of  his,  and  went  back  for  it.  Going  off,  Schiatta 
held  up  his  hand  for  a  signal,  and  the  six  horsemen 
parted  to  allow  the  Buondelmonti  passage  room. 
No  harm  had  been  done  to  them. 

Ranieri  spurred  directly  into  the  city  up  the  Via 
Por'  Santa  Maria,  shouting  as  he  went,  "The  bells! 
the  bells!  Treason!  Buondelmonti!"  but  young 
Gualtiero  went  and  sat  beside  Buondelmonte  and 
put  his  head  on  his  knees,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  cloak,  or  what  was  left  of  it.  The  moment  the 
Uberti  had  left  the  bridge  all  the  bystanders  ran  in 
various  directions,  and  almost  immediately  the  great 
bell  of  the  SS.  Apostoli  began  to  toll.  Others  fol- 
lowed in  no  long  time. 

Ranieri,  riding  full  gallop  up  the  Calimala,  met 
Buonaccorso  Donati  coming  down  to  see  what  the 
cr}4ng  was  about.  He  was  buckling  his  sword- 
belt  as  he  came.     Ranieri  told  him  the  news,  and 

193 


Tond   JIdocnturcs 

Buonaccorso  ran  back  to  fetch  his  father.  Ranieri 
hastened  on  to  find,  if  possible,  one  of  the  Uberti 
who  should  not  have  been  warned.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  in  the  Via  Condotta,  he  did  meet  with 
Malviso  Giantruffetti  returning  from  the  Rubaconte 
bridge.  "Treason!  Treason!"  he  cried,  and,  "Death 
to  the  Uberti!"  and  rode  him  down.  The  fighting 
began  within  a  few  hours;  but  by  that  time  they 
had  taken  Buondelmonte  to  his  house  and  laid  him 
on  a  bier. 

Gualdrada  came  with  her  daughter  soon  after 
they  had  got  him  home.  They  let  her  in  through 
the  chains  which  had  been  put  up  at  the  head  of 
the  Borgo.  Fires  were  burning  in  the  Quarter  of 
San  Piero  Scheraggio  and  all  the  bridges  were  held; 
but  Gualdrada  said,  "There  will  be  place  made  for 
the  dead."  She  chose  that  Piccarda  should  sit 
upon  the  bier,  with  Buondelmonte's  head  on  her 
knees;  and  Piccarda  had  nothing  to  say.  She  only 
stared  at  the  window.  Even  while  they  were  mak- 
ing ready,  the  Gonfalon  was  being  brought  down 
the  Borgo.  Men  heard  the  roar  of  the  fight  in  the 
north  parts.  The  Donati  were  driving  the  Uberti 
down  towards  the  river. 


Cbe  Cove  €ba$e 


€be  Cove  €I)a$e 


I.  Nello  Nelli 

IN  the  Civic  Museum  of  Padua  you  may  see  the 
portrait  of  a  fair  -  haired  young  poet  wreathed 
with  myrtle,  a  pretty  youth  indeed.  He  has  a 
chubby,  blooming  face,  a  long  mouth,  a  pair  of 
eyes  softly  brown  enough  to  make  any  girl's  heart 
beat;  masquerading  as  I  know  not  what  sort  of  a 
shepherd — Daphnis  or  another — he  wears  the  shep- 
herd's leather  chlamys  and  twirls  in  his  fingers  the 
shepherd's  reed.  And  yet  he  perplexes.  You 
think  of  Saint  Sebastian,  and  of  Dionysus;  you  see 
a  sinner  turned  saint,  a  crucified  Cupid:  he  looks 
luxurious,  drowsy  with  luxury ;  clever  and  aware  of 
it — he  looks,  in  fact,  a  dreamer  by  choice  who  yet 
has  a  root  of  good  conceit  in  him  which  might  one 
day  urge  him  to  put  his  dreaming  to  the  test  of 
practice.  In  the  picture  he  can  hardly  be  more 
than  two  or  three  and  twenty,  by  which  time — for 
his  age  was  precocious — all  his  light-hearted  piping 
had  been  done,  and  his  soft  lips  tempered  to  a  more 
measured  music.     When  that  was  painted  he  had 

197 


Tend   Tiaocnturcs 

been  in  prison  and  out  of  it,  at  death's  door  and 
beyond  its  shadow  for  some  two  years;  for  that  is 
the  portrait  of  Nello  NeUi  the  humanist  who,  with 
more  philosophy  in  him  than  most  Venetians,  and 
more  poetry  than  any,  entered  this  history  and  the 
Gabbia  of  Mantua  at  the  tender  age  of  eighteen. 
Even  by  then  he  had  been  a  lover,  was  a  scholar 
and  a  poet,  and  on  the  fair  way  to  some  dignified 
position  or  another — a  professorate,  a  doctor's 
gown,  Latin  correspondence.  Stranger  things  had 
happened  in  his  country  and  century  than  that  he, 
at  five-and-twenty,  should  have  gained  the  red  hat. 
That  he  never  did,  was  the  result  of  putting  dreams 
into  practice — a  thing  unheard  of  in  Cardinals — 
and  is  the  subject  of  this  tale. 

Venice  had  him  first,  but  did  not  keep  him  long. 
His  early  years,  conception,  parentage,  cradling, 
tutelage  are  no  great  matter.  The  sestiere  of  San 
Pietro  in  Castello  is  famous  for  easy  marriages,  and 
it  is  probable  that  that  of  Masuccio  Agnelli  (viva- 
cious man!)  with  Carlotta,  the  ruddy-haired  laun- 
dress, was  as  easy  as  most.  Masuccio  was  a  scribe 
in  the  great  monaster}'  of  San  Gregorio,  able  enough 
for  much  better  things,  but  too  idle  to  attain  them. 
He  was  singularly  handsome,  and  not  without 
kindness;  therefore,  when  Carlotta  told  him  with 
flames  in  her  eyes  that  he  must  marry  her,  he 
pinched  her  cheek,  smiled  tenderly,  and  said,  half 
to  himself,  "I  have  never  yet  been  a  parent."  By 
SO  doing  he  quenched  Carlotta's  flames  in  happy 

198 


Cbc   Cooc   €ba$c 

tears.  He  hired  a  room  in  the  sestiere  where  she 
worked,  was  in  it  as  often  as  not,  and  soon  had 
that  new  joy  to  add  to  his  experiences.  A  golden- 
haired  child  was  born,  with  his  smile  and  Carlotta's 
carnations.  Masuccio  was  enchanted,  and  gave  in- 
structions for  the  christening.  They  called  it 
Agnello,  because  it  had  been  bom  on  Saint  Agnes's 
day,  and  because  she  carries  a  lamb;  also  because 
of  the  patronymic.  Agnello  x\gnelli — Xello  Nelli 
— could  anything  go  more  trippingly  ?  "Dear  girl," 
said  jMasuccio  to  his  wifC;  "you  tripped  and  I 
tripped,  with  this  result.  Let  him  trip  forever  in 
stor}'  to  keep  our  memories  green."  Masuccio  gave 
a  feast  and  illuminated  the  rio  through  all  its 
length.  They  had  music,  as  much  as  they  would; 
they  danced  into  the  small  hours ;  and  then  he  came 
and  kissed  his  Carlotta  and  her  babe. 

But  she  gave  him  no  more  children  and  died  still 
a  young  mother.  In  such  wise  were  the  birth  and 
baptism  of  Nello  Nelli,  the  friend  and  correspond- 
ent of  Politian. 

Nello,  to  his  widowed  father,  proved  a  charming 
consolation,  always  good-humored,  always  engaged 
in  sucking  health  into  his  plump  body;  as  a  short- 
smocked  urchin,  sprawling  with  fine  contempt  for 
display  on  the  quays  and  canal  steps,  he  was  so 
compact  of  beauty,  grace,  and  bright-eyed  mischief 
as  to  be  the  envy  of  all  women  not  yet  blessed  with 
motherhood.  But  Masuccio  tripped  no  more — he 
was  too  happy  in  his  son.     And  while  he  aided  him 

199 


Tond   JIdocnturcs 

in  his  escapades  up  and  down  the  water,  and  fished 
him  out  whenever  he  fell  in,  he  succeeded  also  in 
being  his  friend.  He  taught  him  all  he  knew,  which 
was  much;  grew  enthusiastic  over  the  youngster's 
aptitudes  and  his  own,  and  ended  in  a  perfect  pas- 
sion for  learning,  that  he  might  teach  this  most 
teachable,  lovable  boy.  The  pair  became  fellow- 
students,  egged  each  other  on,  even  quarrelled,  as 
scholars  will,  over  particles  and  such  small  trophies 
of  the  chase,  and  were  reconciled  with  tears,  kisses, 
and  generous  concessions.  Nello  had  Latin  by  the 
time  he  was  nine,  Greek  at  twelve,  and  at  fourteen 
might  have  been  in  Hebrew  but  for  an  accident. 
At  that  age  he  fell  in  love  with  a  lady  ten  years 
older  than  himself,  and  found  out  that  he  was  a 
poet. 

Zenobia  Belforte  was  the  name  of  this  lady,  a 
Greek,  and  wife  to  a  man  three  times  her  senior,  a 
very  learned  jurist,  who  w^as  then  lecturing  in  the 
cloister  of  San  Pancrazio.  Her  bright  black  eyes 
and  slim  fingers,  always  engaged  with  this  most 
promising  pupil,  spoiled  the  chances  of  the  Talmud, 
while  they  enriched  the  vernacular  with  some  very 
sugary  canzoni  and  ballate.  Master  Nello  rhymed 
away,  and  in  his  own  person  enacted  his  rhymes. 
At  his  age  you  must  be  thorough — that's  the  time 
for  logic.  He  was  in  all  the  categories  of  this  uni- 
versal science,  and  he  rhymed  them  all.  Languid 
ecstasies,  complaints,  laments — Anima  rnia  sono  in 
tormento!     Ah,  bclla  cmdcl,  odi  il  mio  lamcnto!  the 

200 


Cbe   Cove   Chase 

dutiful  rascal  played  out  this  music  to  Zenobia's 
fingering,  and  revelled  in  the  most  delicious  pain. 
It  was  make-believe,  of  course;  Nello  was  not  in 
love  with  Zenobia — he  was  in  love  with  amor, 
which  rhymes  with  cuor.  But  Zenobia  was  in  love 
with  Nello,  and  Masuccio,  his  father,  seeing  how  the 
land  lay,  considered  the  lad's  fortune  made.  With 
his  entire  approbation  the  enamoured  lady,  with  her 
professor  and  her  Cupid,  left  Venice  for  Padua. 
"I've  made  him,  and  he  me.  He'll  do  well.  And 
that's  the  way  of  the  world,"  Masuccio  told  him- 
self. He  knew  he  should  never  see  his  son  again, 
and  never  did. 

In  Padua,  that  happy  little  city,  flowering  away 
quietly  under  the  Euganeans,  Nello  made  a  mark 
by  his  good  looks,  extreme  youth,  and  learning. 
He  was  hailed  as  a  prodigy;  for  it  was  a  wonderful 
time,  when  at  any  moment  a  God  might  burn  upon 
the  earth — and  fortunate  were  he  who  discerned  and 
hailed  him  first.  He  gave  lectures  of  his  own,  com- 
menting, if  you  please,  upon  the  Attis  of  Catullus. 
He  invented  and  caused  to  be  enacted  in  a  green 
garden  by  the  Ponte  Corbo,  a  piece,  half  masque, 
half  satire,  abominably  clever,  absurd,  and  au- 
dacious, which  he  called  "The  Priapeia."  He  became 
the  height  of  fashion,  and  Zenobia  went  mad  with 
jealousy.  But  the  exercise  of  his  proper  talents 
was  her  greatest  rival:  he  cared  nothing  for  her 
the  moment  he  became  interesting  to  himself. 
From  Padua  to  Este,  from  Este  to  Ferrara  and  else- 
14  201 


Tona   Adventures 

where,  however,  he  went  at  the  call  of  her  moods. 
Finally  she  took  him  to  Mantua,  in  an  evil  hour 
for  herself.  In  that  city  of  water-worn  palaces  he 
totally  forgot  her  under  the  charm  of  the  great 
PoUtian.  It  was  time — he  had  been  four  years  in 
bondage ;  but  what  was  better  still  was  that  he  for- 
got himself.  He  was  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a 
real  scholar,  for  now  he  loved  learning  only. 

Eighteen  as  he  now  was,  and  in  most  things  as- 
tonishingly premature,  he  was  happily  wise  before 
the  time  in  this,  that  he  was  no  great  lover  of 
women.  Women  loved  him  much,  but  his  advent- 
ures in  their  particular  affair  were  seldom  of  his 
own  seeking.  He  was  critic  as  well  as  minstrel, 
and  always  judged  his  own  cause  to  the  detriment 
of  his  advocacy.  Certain  traits,  tricks,  habits,  ac- 
cidents, whatsoever  they  might  be  in  women, 
touched  him  and  drew  poetry  out  of  him  like  a 
stream  of  honey  from  a  comb;  he  had  a  strain  of 
asceticism,  or  took  a  pleasure  of  the  senses  from  the 
contemplation  of  it.  Frugality,  economy  of  beauty 
he  thought  exquisite;  recluse  beauty — the  hidden 
rose;  a  beauty  unconscious  of  its  own  excellence — 
Apollo  playing  cowherd;  meek  beauty,  beauty  in 
bondage,  beauty  discreet,  beauty  wise:  these  kind 
interested  him,  or  he  told  himself  that  they  would. 
No  such  beauty  had  been  observable  in  Zenobia,  a 
hardy-flowering  stock;  Zenobia  became  his  abhor- 
rence. She  vanished,  and  left  him  alone  with  his 
dreams,   his  studies,   and  his  youth.     Nor  did  he 

202 


find  any  wise  beauty  in  Mantua  which  he  might 
worthily  celebrate;  but  instead,  the  opportunity  of 
putting  a  dream  into  practice,  a  prison,  a  patron, 
a  torment,  a  mart3^rdom,  and  a  wife.  These  things 
are  vitally  bound  up  with  him  and  his  conduct  in 
this  tale. 

To  end  my  prologue.  He  had  been  six  months 
in  Mantua,  the  willing  bondsman  of  Politian  (his 
senior  by  two  years)  and  a  perfected  Greek  style. 
With  that  profound  young  man  he  had  explored  all 
known  mines  of  learning,  and  had  sunk  a  good  few 
shafts  for  unopened  seams.  He  was  very  well  in- 
clined, too,  to  let  the  world  share  his  adventures. 
He  commented  upon  the  Hymns  of  Callimachus  in 
an  "  Interpretatio  Mystica"  of  such  excellent  piety 
that  Cardinal  Gonzaga  was  to  show  it  to  Pope 
Sixtus,  and  did  not  forget  it  for  a  day  and  a  half; 
his  Scholia  upon  Propertius  lost  nothing  by  the  dis- 
cretion with  which  he  treated  that  poet's  vexed 
loves.  He  became  enamoured  of  physical  science, 
did  not  shun  to  probe  the  recesses  of  our  nature. 
He  bottomed,  for  instance,  the  habits  of  infants  in 
a  treatise — "Why  babies,  when  they  hear  the 
nurse's  lullaby,  cease  their  squalling,  and  soon,  in- 
deed, fall  asleep;  but  with  men  otherwise?"  Plato 
helped  him,  or  the  Platonic  system,  and  some  very 
elegant  Latinit}^  He  passed,  by  an  easy  transition, 
to  consider  the  difficulties  of  drunkards.  "Cur 
nonnulli  ebrii  gemina  vident?"  is  the  title  of  his 
work — a    gloss    upon    the    Problems    of    Alexander 

203 


Tend    fldpcnturcs 

Aphrodisius.  Intimate  thoughts  concerning  ani- 
mals and  lovers  occupied  him  next.  "Why  mules 
are  not  fertile?"  "Why  the  extremities  of  lovers 
are  at  one  time  hot,  at  another  cold?"  "Why  the 
bearers  of  loads  sing  as  they  go?"  "Why  insects 
die  in  oil?"  These  excursions  delighted  Mantua; 
and  Nello,  instead  of  following  Politian  to  Florence, 
when  the  poet  was  summoned  by  Lorenzo,  stayed 
where  he  was  in  the  hope  of  preferment.  Cardinal 
Guido  Gonzaga,  brother  of  the  Marquess  and  Re- 
gent of  the  State,  was  understood  to  be  benevo- 
lently inclined. 
II.   We  Taste  his  Qu.\lity 

The  society  of  the  learned  had  by  no  means  cut 
him  oft  that  of  the  gay.  In  that  ItaHan  spring 
there  was  no  dismal  science.  Nello  took  his  learn- 
ing lightly,  as  became  so  pretty  a  scholar,  adorned 
his  person  to  be  in  tune  with  his  mind,  could  com- 
pliment a  lady  or  flatter  a  great  man,  with  any 
courtier  in  Lombardy.  The  Marquess  of  Mantua, 
Lodovico  the  Turk,  as  they  called  him,  was  a  big- 
boned  soldier  in  the  main,  a  man  of  hard  knocks 
and  lightning  judgments,  who  chose  a  minister  like 
a  battle-ground,  and  met  arguments  like  hostile 
squadrons.  He  respected  the  Church  and  Church- 
manship,  and  as  for  art  and  letters,  he  sincerely 
admired  what  he  made  no  pretence  towards  him- 
self— sound  book-learning.  He  had  made  Master 
Nello  free  of  his  Court,  recommended  him  to  his 
more  accomplished  brother,  the  Cardinal,  and  en- 

2Q4 


the   Cooc   Chase 

couraged  his  sons  to  be  intimate  with  the  youth. 
These  two,  in  character  very  different,  were  Fede- 
rigo  and  Francesco,  the  latter  a  mild-mannered 
boy,  shy,  and  much  under  his  uncle's  thumb,  in- 
tended for  the  Church.  He  did  not  greatly  interest 
Nello,  but  Federigo  did — a  hot-blooded,  handsome, 
rebellious  fellow,  able,  idle,  and  a  rake.  With  him 
our  poet  struck  up  a  Horace  -  Mcecenas,  patron- 
client  kind  of  friendship,  which  ended  abruptly, 
and  in  the  following  manner. 

Among  the  less  reputable,  but  not  on  that  ac- 
•count  least  reputed  inhabitants  of  Mantua,  was  a 
very  handsome  young  woman,  known  as  La  Per- 
netta.  She  lived  in  the  Via  Sant'  Agata,  between 
the  Castello  and  the  Ponte  Mulina  (where,  over  the 
rushing  weirs,  the  Twelve  Apostles  preside  at  their 
mills,  and  diligently  grind  out  the  corn  of  the  faith- 
ful) ;  and  being  as  prodigal  of  her  lover's  bounty  as 
of  her  own,  she  attracted,  whenever  she  chose  to 
ask  for  it,  a  large  company.  It  was  upon  a  hot 
July  night  that  Nello  found  himself  in  her  supper- 
room,  one  of  a  half-dozen  women  and  as  many 
young  men  who  were  eating  and  drinking  there. 
Federigo  Gonzaga,  flushed  as  the  Wine-God  him- 
self, with  vine-leaves  in  his  black  hair,  was  there 
too.  He  was,  as  always,  bitter  in  his  cups.  There 
were  others — Amedeo  Castiglione  and  his  brother 
Baldassare,  sedate  and  master  of  himself;  a  beauti- 
ful little  creature,  all  roses  and  gold,  called  Giulia 
Romana;  a  Lionello  d'Este   (by  a  side-wind)  with 

20$ 


I^otid   JIdventures 

his  broken  nose  and  hare-lip;  a  shameful  old  man 
who  thought  it  not  robbery  to  beshame  his  silver 
hair;  Sirena  of  Forli,  Violante  Senese — to  name  no 
more,  since  their  names  tell  nothing.  There  had 
been  songs,  hiccoughings,  bickerings,  loud  talk,  high 
words;  now  and  then  already  a  man  had  bitten  his 
lip,  or  started  and  felt  for  his  dagger.  Throned  in 
the  midst,  magnificently  disarrayed  and  magnifi- 
cently sulky,  crowned  with  roses,  and  the  color  of 
them,  Pernetta  sat  and  gloomed  at  her  company. 
She  was  in  a  bad  humor. 

"Drink,  drink,  my  pantheress,"  Lionello  urged 
her,  grinning  horribly  through  his  split  lip;  "pour 
to  Lyaeus.  See  him  over  there  in  his  ferment. 
Sleek  yourself  for  his  sake." 

"Silence,  satyr,"  said  she,  "and  let  me  alone. 
Baldassare" — she  beckoned  to  the  grave  young 
man — "Baldassare,  good  friend,  go  and  ask  the  lit- 
tle Venetian  to  sing  me  out  of  this  hubbub." 

Baldassare  bowed  his  way  from  lady  to  lad. 

**  Messer  Nello  Nelli,  our  ladv  is  sick  of  love  and 
all  sweet  food.  You  are  to  comfort  her  with  music, 
since  flagons  are  her  loathing.  Let  it  be  of  your  best, 
I  beseech  you — but  not  inflammatory,  my  dear  sir." 

"May  the  fate  of  Pentheus  be  mine,"  said  Nello, 
blinking  his  long  eyelids — "of  Pentheus  whom  the 
Maenads  tore,  if  I  provoke  that  God  of  theirs." 

"You  rebuke  me  well,  sir,"  Baldassare  said.  "I 
speak  with  a  man  of  soul.  When  ladies  fall  to 
their  knees,  poets  spread  their  wings." 

206 


CDe   Cope   gb4$c 

Nello  said,  "I  shall  certainly  do  my  best  for 
Monna  Pernetta."  He  swung  free  his  lute,  and 
struck  a  chord  or  two. 

I  do  not  reproduce  his  song.  He  had  a  sweet 
and  gallant  voice,  whose  hardihood  and  advent- 
urous ease  had  the  power  to  draw  tears.  A  dis- 
cretion which  was  natural  to  him  bade  him  select 
a  county  song,  his  own  wholesomeness  secured  its 
honesty:  it  had  been  born  in  the  Garfagnana  of 
Tuscany,  upon  some  green  and  wooded  slope  of 
that  pious  land,  and  breathed  of  a  love  artless,  in- 
nocent, and  tragic  at  once,  that  of  a  girl  for  a  man 
out  of  reach,  which  hurt  her  and  wounded  her  notes. 
It  was  a  girl  who  had  sung  it  in  his  hearing,  some 
such  poor  drifting  creature  as  he  had  before  him 
now;  and  Pernetta  may  have  been  of  her  country,  or 
may  have  wished  to  be  of  it.  Whether  it  was  pity 
or  regret  wrought  the  catharsis  is  not  to  be  known. 
Her  eyes  were  blind  when  he  had  done.  What 
cool  breath  of  what  familiar  pastures  blew  upon 
her  from  his  notes,  what  memories  of  peace  and 
young  love,  wonderful,  hopeful,  triumphant — who 
is  to  say?  She  was  deeply  moved,  and  being  vehe- 
ment in  all  that  she  did,  rose  suddenly,  wine-cup 
in  hand,  and  threw  over  her  chair  in  her  haste. 
Nello,  having  ended,  sat  down  again  and  took  the 
applause  of  his  company  sedateh^;  but  before  long 
he  was  aware  of  La  Pernetta  clamoring  for  a  clear 
road. 

"Let  me  pass,  herded  swine,"  he  could  hear  her 

207 


Tona   jFiaoenturcs 

scolding,  "let  me  pass,  you  who  run  swilling  to  the 
wine-trough  so  soon  as  you  dare.  Let  me  pass,  I 
say.  I  am  going  to  kneel  to  the  first  clean  heart 
I  have  met  with  in  Mantua."  She  was  half  crying, 
half  railing,  more  than  half  tipsy.  Nello  consider- 
ed her  with  a  chill,  critical  eye,  not  withholding  ad- 
miration of  her  bountiful  parts,  but  putting  no 
heart  into  their  study.  She  was  like  a  Roman 
Bacchante,  with  her  loose  hair,  hot,  stained  face, 
and  gown  slipped  off  one  shoulder.  If  you  must 
have  enthusiasm  in  a  nymph,  he  preferred  that 
shown  by  Scopas.  The  conception,  he  thought, 
was  none  the  worse  for  being  circumscribed;  it  was 
not  necessary  to  spill  over  so  much.  And  yet  it 
was  curious  to  him  to  see  this  sumptuous  animal 
strive  with  the  God. 

Misused,  misusing,  burning  creature,  she  came 
towards  him  with  a  hasty  lurch;  came  stumbling 
on,  was  quite  near  him,  a  goblet  in  one  hand, 
crushed  in  the  other  a  rose-wreath  torn  from  her 
hair.  Her  color  of  fire,  wild  breath,  disorder,  near- 
ly scorched  him.  A  little  nervously,  he  rose  to  re- 
ceive her. 

"Hail,  poet!"  she  cried  out,  swaying  in  her  bal- 
ance. "Hail,  thou  that  singest  of  good  love!  Look 
at  me  well — look.  I  am  the  Shame  of  Mantua,  and 
I  kneel  to  you!" 

Then  and  there  she  dropped  to  her  two  knees 
and  began  to  struggle  with  her  passion  of  penitence. 
Tears  came  hardly  from  eyes  long  dry;  to  sob  was 

208 


Cbc   Eooc    €Da$c 

horrible  pain.  It  was  a  sudden  and  dangerous 
frenzy  she  was  in.  Nello,  greatly  concerned,  would 
have  lifted  her  up. 

"Ah,  Madonna,  never  kneel  to  me!"  But  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  shocked  and  empty  face. 

"Madonna!"  She  gestured  her  despair — "Do 
you  call  me  Madonna — naming  the  holiest?  Call 
me  Robaccia — call  me  Corruption,  for  such  am  I." 

As  he  stooped,  full  of  gentle  disregard  of  this 
sort  of  fury,  to  lift  her  up,  his  fine  manners  were 
a  sting.  Her  shame  was  driven  sharply  inwards 
and  maddened  her.  It  was  a  tense  moment, 
chosen,  of  all  others,  by  that  misshapen  devil 
Lionello  as  one  in  which  to  crow  like  a  cock.  Then 
some  fool  laughed,  as  fools  will,  and  Pemetta  turned, 
furious.  Even  then  the  storm  might  have  grum- 
bled out,  had  not  Federigo  hereupon  put  his  arm 
round  her  from  behind  and  whispered  in  her  ear — 
some  catchword  of  her  class.  That  cut  her  deep; 
at  that  she  sprang  away  from  him  and  found  her 
feet,  mortification  adding  fuel  to  the  blazing  heart. 
She  swung  herself  clear  of  him,  and  "Dog!"  she 
cried  at  him,  and  hit  him  full  in  the  forehead  with 
the  metal  cup.  The  edge  cut  him  open;  he  stag- 
gered back  and  fell  with  a  thump  in  puddled  blood 
and  wine.  There  was  a  moment  of  absolute  quiet 
until  he  was  down,  and  then  the  roomful  swarmed 
about  him,  about  the  tragic  woman,  and  about  poor 
Nello,  dazed  author  of  all  these  harms.  The  uproar 
was  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  disturbed  rookery^ — 

209 


fond   Jidpcnturcs 

cries,  whirling  arms,  foolish  laughter,  abandoned 
sobbing  from  little  Giulia  Romana.  One,  more  un- 
manly than  the  rest,  ran  out  screaming  into  the 
night. 

"Morte!  Morte!"  they  heard  him  shrilling  down 
the  street.  "Treachery!  Treachery!  Tome!"  Nello 
grew  scared,  the  women  were  tussling  to  get  at  the 
door.  Lionello  d'Este,  spurred  by  his  familiar  fiend, 
locked  and  set  his  back  to  it  until  the  guard  came. 

The  soldiery  clattered  into  the  house;  their  heels 
and  jingling  accoutrements  soon  quieted  down  the 
clamor.  Lionello  threw  open  the  door  with  a  flour- 
ish; way  was  made  to  the  body  in  the  midst  of  the 
wreck  of  feasting. 

"Whose  work,  gentlemen?"  The  lieutenant  was 
standing  over  the  red  and  motionless  Federigo — 
heir  to  the  Mantuan  dignity,  good  lack!  Nobody 
cared  to  claim  the  honor  of  having  laid  him  there. 
Pernetta  was  crouched,  shaking  in  a  corner;  this 
was  a  hangman's  business.  Nello,  only,  saw  her, 
and  pitied  her.  Besides,  she  had  praised  his  sing- 
ing. 

"My  work,  lieutenant,"  he  said.  No  one  else 
spoke.  Pernetta,  white  to  the  lips,  stared  at  her 
champion. 

"You  are  my  prisoner,"  said  the  lieutenant; 
"kindly  hand  me  your  weapons."  Nello  gravely 
handed  over  his  lute,  and  somebody  sniggered.  It 
had  fluttering  ribbons,  and  was  a  pretty  instrument; 
as  a  weapon  a  mouse  would  have  laughed  at  it. 

2IO 


But  you  can  never  make  an  officer  of  the  law  look 
foolish.  The  lieutenant  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Nello's  hands  were  strapped  behind  him, 
and  all  names  were  taken  down. 

"To  the  Gabbia,"  said  the  officer,  "avantir' 
Now  the  Gabbia  is  an  iron  cage  eighty  feet  up 
the  face  of  a  tower,  and  is  six  feet  by  four  by  four. 
III.  He  Philosophizes  on  High 

The  time  is  before  dawn.  Imagine  Nello  Nelli, 
a  bloom-faced,  golden-haired  lad  in  green  velvet 
doublet  and  trunks,  green  and  white  hose,  and 
dainty  shoes,  crouched  in  an  iron  cage  in  mid-air 
— a  cage  six  feet  by  four  by  four — but  do  not  im- 
agine him  miserable.  His  undimmed  eyes  searched 
the  firmament  with  interest;  expectancy  kept  his 
red  lips  moist,  and  gave  color  to  his  cheeks;  he 
held  a  keen  lookout  for  stars,  and  the  first  stirring 
of  light.  "There  bums  Sirius,"  he  mused,  "there 
falls,  tired,  the  Wain.  We  have  not  the  Pleiades 
from  our  eyrie;  the  Way  of  Milk  is  paling  already 
before  the  flushed  face  of  Eos.  Courage,  courage — 
what  a  blessing  it  is  that  my  lodging  faces  the  east! 
She  comes,  the  nymph  Eos  comes — 

"all  red, 
Blushing  to  be  so  new  from  Tithon's  bed! 

a  pretty  line,  and  I  think  new  in  conceit."  He 
gave  ease  to  his  numbed  right  leg  by  doing  violence 
to  his  left;  he  found,  also,  that  to  clasp  a  knee  was 
comfortable   to   the    reins;  but   he   was   forced   to 

211 


Tend   Jldoenturcs 

admit  that  rectangular  bars  of  iron  make  a  bad 
mattress.  The  air,  however,  was  balm  after  the 
wine-charged  heat  of  Monna  Pernetta's  banquet. 
He  had  been  bathing  in  its  freshness  for  two  or 
three  hours  already,  and  was  not  chilled  by  it  yet. 
That  was  famous,  because  the  sun  could  not  now 
be  far  off,  and  its  first  rays  must  strike  him  at  the 
height  he  was.  A  faint  breeze  came  to  play  about 
his  forehead — a  sigh  from  love-lorn  Eos;  the  whole 
city  lay  slumbrous  beneath  him,  muffled  in  the 
slipping  shrouds  of  night.  Probably  he  alone  was 
watching  and  waiting  for  the  day. 

His  earliest  sure  premonition  came  from  over- 
head. A  pigeon  began  to  coo,  softly  at  first,  as  if 
tentatively;  then,  gaining  assurance  with  volume, 
pouring  out  a  comfortable  stream  of  sound,  full  of 
brooding,  contented  preparation,  of  monotonous 
peace.  "Good,"  said  Nello,  "good!  I  am  on  a 
level  with  the  birds,  always  friends  of  mine — and 
now  neighbors.  That  householder  up  there  has 
not,  perhaps,  so  various  a  pipe  as  mine,  but  he 
sings  of  what  he  knows,  and  in  that  does  wiselier 
than  I.  Did  I  do  so  at  Monna  Pernetta's  Bacchic 
interlude?  I  doubted  nothing  at  the  moment,  but 
now  I  doubt — rebuked  by  this  cool  air,  by  the 
cadences  of  this  peaceful  songster,  my  more  reason- 
able colleague.  All  Nature  is  in  tune ;  but  I  have  been 
an  alien  to  her,  fatally  out  of  tune."  He  shook  his 
head.  "I  was  cooler  than  the  others;  I  love  not 
over-ripe  women — I  was  more  at  peace  with  my 

2  12 


Che   Eo<)e   Ehase 

soul  than  poor  spilt  Pemetta;  but  I  gave  her 
none  of  my  peace,  and  so  she  broke  Federigo's 
head,  and  I  pay  the  bill."  He  clasped  both  his 
knees,  he  put  his  chin  between  them,  and  gave  in- 
effable repose  to  his  backbone.  "There  is  a  surer 
foothold  for  me  than  singing  of  Nature  in  a  painted 
lady's  bower;  love  of  books,  love  of  learning,  love 
of  God,  love  of  stainless  things — things  unshadowed 
and  unsmirched  —  love  of  a  sweet -breathed  lass. 
Ah!"  he  cried,  in  a  sudden  flood  of  ecstasy;  "ah, 
soft,  Nello,  soft!  See  that  fluttering  out  yonder, 
that  stretching  of  a  silver  cord;  see  the  creeping 
light,  the  w^hisper  of  our  hidden  world.  Oh,  pledge 
of  Heaven,  the  Dawn,  the  Dawn!" 

Slowly  the  gray  cup  of  the  sky  filled  and  flushed 
with  fire;  the  belfry  of  Santa  Barbara  caught  it 
first.  A  bird  or  two  cheeped,  in  the  poplars  sixty 
feet  below  him  some  watcher  rustled  the  leaves; 
the  wind  came  on  more  assured,  the  light  broad- 
ened, and  paled  as  it  spread.  He  saw  the  sheeted 
lagoon,  the  long  bar  of  the  bridge  run  out  like  a 
spit  of  sand ;  he  saw  the  reeds  bend,  a  heron  flap 
heavily  by  the  shore;  then  reddening  cloud-wings 
caught  his  eyes,  a  band  of  rose  and  gray,  burning  at 
the  edge,  intensely  bright.  The  chorus  of  the  birds 
opened  full;  the  birds  were  at  prime:  roof  beyond 
roof  Mantua  lay  out  in  ridges,  like  a  mountain  pros- 
pect— with  the  belfries  for  the  great  skyey  peaks, 
the  gables  for  cornices,  ledges  of  rock,  the  chimneys 
for  splintered  pikes,  the  domes  like  breasted  hills — 

213 


oh,  the  wonder  and  the  still  delight  of  this  daily 
miracle,  to  be  seen  only  from  the  Gabbia,  and  only 
savored  by  the  condemned  criminal!  Nello  lived 
at  fever-rate  for  an  astonishing  hour,  and  would  not 
have  changed  his  cage  with  the  tenant  of  Saint 
Peter's  throne;  the  very  Courts  of  Heaven,  one  may 
say,  would  have  seemed  a  doubtful  bargain. 

The  pigeon,  meantime,  went  chanting  on,  a  sweet 
and  homely  descant  on  the  glowing  theme.  Nello 
rubbed  his  hands.  "O  benissimo,  benissimo!  I 
am  in  the  happiest  case,"  he  told  himself.  "I  sur- 
vey the  open  country.  I  see  more  sky  than  His 
Magnificence  the  Marquess  of  Mantua,  or  His  Emi- 
nence the  Cardinal  Guido  Gonzaga.  My  lodging 
is  aerial;  certainly  there  is  a  draught,  but  no  soul 
in  Mantua  has  seen  what  I  have  seen  this  day. 
And,  after  all,  it  is  satisfactory  to  remember  that 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  cutting  open  Federigo's 
head.  That  being  so,  I  fancy  that  I  suffer  con- 
siderably less  than  the  real  sinner.  Monna  Per- 
netta  is,  I  hope,  lonely  in  her  bed,  thinking  rue- 
fully of  recent  excesses,  and  deriving  (it  may 
even  be)  some  glimmer  of  wisdom  from  my  chiv- 
alrous rebuke.  For  if  a  distempered  woman  is 
not  rebuked  by  a  stranger  offering  to  take  her 
offence  upon  himself  there  is  no  merit  in  vicarious 
sacrifice.  I  did  well  by  her,  better  by  myself,  I 
am  sure  of  it.  The  woman  had  been  moved  to 
better  desires  by  my  singing — lifted  up,  set  on 
her  feet;  but  while  she  rose,  as  on  wings,  Federigo 

214 


the  Cooe   Cbase 

was  left  behind,  still  grovelling  in  the  mire  where 
she  had  once  been.  His  muddy  touch  shocked 
her:  ah,  believe  it,  there  is  a  cleanliness  attain- 
able by  us  all!  She  did  virtuously  to  cut  him 
down — she  could  not  have  done  otherwise — she 
was  armed  by  Heaven.  And  I,  the  cause  of  her 
great  act,  did  well  to  pay  the  shot;  for  nobody 
ever  paid  so  high  a  compliment  to  my  muse  as 
to  shed  blood  in  its  honor.  At  this  rate,  Nello, 
a  poet  may  command  armies  in  the  field,  and  a 
philosopher  may  yet  be  king." 

Warm  fires  leaping  over  a  ridded  world  assured 
him  that  he  spoke  the  truth;  the  sun's  good  face, 
which  at  that  moment  sent  a  kindly  ray  into  his 
cage,  gave  him  the  heart  of  a  warrior.  He  ate 
his  bread — it  was  capital.  He  sipped  his  cup  of 
water — the  night  had  iced  it  for  him.  "If  I  die 
within  the  next  hour,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  can 
be  very  sure  that  I  have  lived  greatly  during  its 
predecessor."  He  awaited  his  summons  with 
confidence,  and  as  he  watched  Mantua  crawling 
(like  a  nest  of  ants)  to  its  labors,  was  in  such  high 
good -humor  with  himself  and  it  that  he  forgot 
that  one  of  Mantua's  labors  was  to  be  his  execu- 
tion, and  that  there  were  to  be  no  more  labors 
for  him  in  this  world. 

He  was  in  the  Cage  of  the  Condemned  on  his 
own  confession  of  having  cut  open  the  head  of 
Don  Federigo  Gonzaga,  heir  to  the  Marquessate 
of   Mantua,   with   a   silver   goblet.     At   half-past 

215 


fond   Jidpcnfurcs 

ten  in  the  morning  the  Turnkey  came  to  take 
him  out.  "Master  Poet,"  said  he,  "the  time  has 
come."  "Sir,"  replied  Nello,  "I  have  been  ex- 
pecting him  a  long  while.  I  hope  he  is  as  ready 
as  I  am." 

"There  is  a  guard  below,  sir,  to  take  you  im- 
mediately to  His   Eminence." 

"Master  Turnkey,"  says  Nello,  with  sparkling 
eyes,   '' moriturus   te  sahttat.'" 
IV.  The  Cardinal 

Cardinal  Guido  Gonzaga,  who,  in  the  absence 
of  the  Marquess  his  brother,  was  Regent  of 
Mantua,  was  a  prince  of  this  world  and  a  man 
of  it  in  the  first  place,  a  Prince  of  the  Church 
when  it  suited  him  so  to  be,  and  forty  years  old. 
His  proportions  were  massive  and  imposing;  he 
was  square-shouldered  and  necked  like  a  bull. 
His  chest  was  a  buttress,  his  chin  manifold,  his 
hands  were  somewhat  gross.  He  had  staring, 
black  eyes,  which  had  the  faculty  of  seeming  to 
be  aware  of  nothing,  and  consequently  of  telling 
you  nothing;  and  yet  he  was  by  no  means  without 
insight,  humor,  or  a  pleasurable  sense.  He  had 
lived  without  scandal  in  a  quasi-married  state 
with  a  lady  of  the  noble  house  of  Pico;  he  had 
earned  fame  as  a  warrior,  and  plumed  himself  upon 
his  statesmanship.  Since  the  death  of  his  com- 
panion, without  issue,  no  disorders  had  been  ob- 
servable in  his  life  and  conversation;  in  fact,  he 
took  particular  care  that  the  world,  admiring  him 

216 


as  he  trampled  its  ways,  should  take  due  note 
of  his  fine  discretion.  He  was  no  ascetic;  his 
reason,  which  told  him  that  appetite  was  not 
given  us  for  nothing,  made  the  thought  absurd. 
But  he  was  accustomed  to  say  that  heartache 
was  as  sure  a  sign  of  ill-health  as  the  headache, 
and  as  easily  avoided.  He  took  his  pleasures 
therefore,  temperately,  and  enjoyed  them  all  the 
more. 

It  was  before  this  stately  personage  that  young 
Francesco,  his  mild-mannered  nephew,  knelt  and 
blushed  as  he  told  the  tale  of  overnight's  revel 
and  tragic  upshot.  It  seems  that  La  Pernetta  had 
embarrassed  him  with  her  confidence,  and  assailed 
him  with  prayer  that  the  truly  guilty  might  suffer. 
The  Cardinal  smiled,  partly  at  the  story,  partly  at 
the  teller  of  it. 

"You  report  a  Magdalen  in  our  midst,  my 
nephew,"  says  he. 

"My  lord,"  replied  Francesco,  "the  woman  has 
led  a  deplorable  life  by  her  own  confession.  She 
has  told  me  all — she  is  a  beautiful,  wild  creature. 
It  was  she  alone  who  did  the  deed,  provoked  by 
the  untimely  acts  of  my  poor  brother.  The  poet, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  moved  her  to  repentance. 
She  is,  as  I  say,  exceedingly — " 

"As  you  saw,  nephew,  I  think  you  would  have 
said." 

Francesco  was  fluttered.     "Your  Eminence,  as 
a  candidate  for  holy  orders — " 
xs  217 


Tend   Jldocntures 

"Never  protest,  my  son,"  said  his  uncle,  cross- 
ing his  legs,  "and  never  explain,  if  you  hope  to 
be  a  Prince  of  the  Church.  Do,  rather,  and  do 
strongly.  Let  the  woman  be  what  she  is,  or  what 
she  appears  to  you  to  be,  we  have  the  means  of 
proving  her  contrition  under  our  hands.  I  will 
examine  the  poet  myself,  but  believe  that  I  un- 
derstand the  affair  very  well.  Your  brother  Fe- 
derigo  will  be  none  the  worse  for  his  cupping, 
and  I  suspect  that  the  girl  has  given  him  no 
more  than  his  deserts.  But  the  little  philoso- 
pher moves  my  admiration.  No  doubt  the  whole 
affair  was  very  flattering  to  his  vanity — yet  it 
was  a  gallant  return  to  make  to  a  lady  who 
praised  his  verses,  to  be  ready  to  be  hanged  in 
her  stead.  I  like  the  spirit  of  him  much  more 
than  I  do  his  discourses  on  the  classical  authors. 
Send  him  to  me,  Francesco."- 

Francesco,  having  kissed  the  princely  ring,  was 
about  to  withdraw,  but  the  Cardinal  laid  a  heavy 
hand  on  his  young  shoulder.  "Mind  me  now, 
Francis,"  he  said,  "be  discreet.  Do  not  interfere 
with  wiser  heads  than  your  own,  nor  with  the 
hopes  of  your  country.  We  shall  not  make  very 
much  of  Federigo,  I  believe.  Already  I  know 
that  he  is  not  docile  in  this  Bavarian  marriage  we 
are  getting  him.  The  road  he  is  upon  now  leads 
to  Ruffianism;  I  see  him  a  bravo,  a  dunghill  cock 
flapping  his  wings  among  cutthroats.  Now,  my 
boy,  with  you  in  your  scarlet  and  Mantua  under 

218 


your  hand,  what  is  to  keep  you  from  the  Vatican  ?" 
He  shrugged  as  the  lad  drooped.  "At  least,  be 
it  not  said  against  you  that  some  slobber-cheeked 
baggage  of  a  girl  kept  you  from  it.  Now  go,  my 
boy,  and  send  the  poet  to  me." 

By  this  means  Nello's  meteorological  observa- 
tions were  cut  short  at  half-past  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  lost  no  time  in  presenting  himself  in  the 
Cardinal's  antechamber.  He  had  already  a  bow- 
ing acquaintance  with  the  great  man. 

"Master  Nello,"  said  the  Prince,  "your  inven- 
tion surprises  me.  What  part  did  you  propose 
yourself  to  play  up  there  in  the  Gabbia?" 

"The  part  of  a  gentleman,  my  lord,  had  been 
in  my  thoughts,"  replied  Nello,  "but  predilec- 
tions are  unmanageable.  I  found  myself  study- 
ing the  weather." 

"Did  you  consider  it  a  gentleman's  business  to 
tell  lies  for  worthless  women,  sir?" 

"Ah,"  said  Nello,  waving  his  hand  to  one  side, 
"Your  Eminence  knows  better  than  I  do  whether 
a  man  may  not  sometimes  prevaricate.  As  to 
the  lady's  worth,  I  know  nothing  of  her,  except 
that  she  praised  my  singing." 

"At  the  cost  of  my  nephew's  head,  young  man." 

"That  is  so,  Eminence.  Her  flattery  took  a 
practical  form.  But  if  I  may  be  permitted  to 
explain,  Don  Federigo's  head  happened  to  be  the 
next  to  her  hand.  In  reality  she  was  as  guiltless 
as  he  was,  and  I  alone  culpable.     For  undoubted' 

219 


Tend   Jiaoentures 

ly,  if  I  had  not  sung  she  had  not  repented  her 
way  of  life;  and  if  she  had  remained  in  sin,  Don 
Federigo  had  remained  in  health,  but  in  sin  also 
with  her.  So  that  I  cannot  but  feel  that  in  chas- 
tising Don  Federigo  she  did  him  a  good  service, 
and  that  in  moving  her  as  I  did  a  good  service 
was  done  to  her.  For  such  things  as  these,  though 
I  may  deserve  the  penalty  of  the  Civil  Arm,  I 
shall  not  shrink  from  a  higher  tribunal." 

The  Cardinal  was  pleased.  He  tossed  his  head 
and  laughed. 

"Bravo!"  he  said.  "Either  you  have  learned 
that  frankness  is  acceptable  to  my  family,  or 
(which  is  better  still)  that  it  is  acceptable  to 
yourself.  I  agree  with  your  estimate  of  the  ser- 
vice done  to  my  nephew,  and  can  perhaps  do 
you  one  in  return.  What  are  your  plans,  Master 
Nello?     Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  Church?" 

"Eminence,"  Nello  replied,  "I  think  of  Holy 
Church  every  day.  It  is  the  duty  of  every  man 
who  would  be  thought  wise." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  the  Cardinal.  "  In  a  Christian 
State—" 

"Eminence,"  said  Nello,  quickly,  "in  every 
State.  I  am  of  the  opinion  of  Plato,  that  a  wise 
man  bows  his  knee  to  the  divinity  of  the  place  in 
which  he  may  happen  to  be,  not  as  a  token  of 
acquaintance,  but  lest,  by  the  omission,  some  god 
may  be  offended." 

"I  had  not  remarked  that  passage  in  the  philos- 

220 


i 


Cbe   Cove   ehase 

opher,"  said  Gonzaga  dryly;  "but  we  Churchmen 
ding  mainly  to  Aristotle.  He,  we  think,  is  not  so 
apt  to  commit  himself.  I  do  not  wish  to  press  you 
— yet  it  is  a  fine  career." 

"Learning  also  appears  to  me  a  fine  career," 
Nello  ventured  to  say.     The  Cardinal  nodded. 

He  said,  after  a  pause,  "I  have  a  place  in  my 
Secretariate  empty,  which  I  shall  be  glad  to  put  at 
your  disposal.  It  is  a  very  personal  affair,  requir- 
ing tact,  amiability,  power  of  invention,  some  rea- 
soning, and  a  knowledge  of  tongues.  Arabic  will 
be  useful;  you  should  learn  that  language.  I  have 
heard  nothing  but  good  of  you  from  Agnolo  Poliziano ; 
Vittorino  da  Feltre  speaks  well  of  you.  But  your 
best  credentials  are  your  own.  What  do  you  say, 
my  friend  ?" 

"I  say  that  I  will  serve  you  to  the  utmost  of  my 
wit,"  said  Nello,  sedately,  and  kissed  the  ring.  The 
Cardinal,  moved  by  some  paternal  humor,  patted 
his  bent  head,  and  with  a  "State  sano,  figliuolo 
mio"  nodded  him  away.  He  went  out  of  the 
Castle  as  if  on  wings.  He  had  been  long  enough  in 
the  world  to  know  the  worth  of  such  a  friendship 
as  he  had  made;  it  justified  him  in  a  long  visit  to 
the  tailor  in  the  Via  Broletta. 

"Battista,"  he  said  to  that  careworn  artist,  "I 
invite  you  to  share  my  good-fortune.  This  day  I 
enter  the  Cardinal-Regent's  service,  and  consider 
your  accounts  as  good  as  paid."  Battista  rounded 
his  dutiful  shoulders,  and  rubbed  his  hands  together. 

221 


Tond   Jidventures 

"Let  us  not  speak  of  such  things,  dear  sir.  What 
are  little  accounts  between  you  and  me?" 

"Trifles,"  said  Nello.  "My  way  is  clear  before 
me,  stocked  with  the  miraculous.  Consider  the 
variations  of  my  fortune.  At  five  this  morning  I 
was  in  the  Gabbia,  able  to  remark  that  you  did  not 
attend  the  first,  nor  indeed  the  fourth,  mass  in 
Sant'  Andrea.  At  eleven  I  was  in  the  study  of  His 
Eminence.  Now,  at  noon,  I  am  in  your  shop,  or- 
dering a  suit  which  is  to  do  you  credit,  as  surely 
as  you  will  give  credit  for  it  to  me.  Make  me  a  black 
cloth  doublet  and  trunks,  of  the  finest  web.  There 
shall  be  slashes  on  the  shoulders  and  at  the  hips — 
slashes  in  which  you  will  insert  black  satin,  Battista, 
and  liberally,  lest  it  should  be  said  of  me  that  I  dis- 
play all  my  goods  to  the  market.  I  will  have  black 
silk  hose,  my  friend,  and  fine  lace  at  the  neck  and 
wrists.  No  color,  my  genius,  no  color,  save  one 
scarlet  garter  on  the  left  leg  to  mark  the  rank  of 
my  patron;  and  a  scarlet  cap  of  the  present  fashion, 
with  a  pheasant's  feather  therein,  pointing  ever 
forward,  to  indicate  my  sanguine  future.  Let  all 
this  be  done  with  speed,  for  I  have  much  to  per- 
form before  we  go  to  Milan,  the  Cardinal  and  his 
secretary.  Let  me  have  also  a  cloak  of  black  velvet 
with  a  lining  of  honorable  purple." 

"Benissimo,  benissimo,  dear  sir,"  murmured  Bat- 
tista.    "And  a  sword?     And  a  hanger?     Yes?" 

"A  fig  for  your  andirons!"  cried  the  youth.  "You 
should  know  well  enough  that  the  weapons  I  work 

222 


with  are  here."  He  touched  his  smooth  forehead, 
and  the  rebuked  Battista  hastened  to  his  tapes. 
"You  have  the  person  of  the  young  David,  dear 
sir — 

"Ah,"  said  Nello,  "let  us  accept  the  augury.  I 
observed  that  GoHath  was  very  civil." 

He  dined  at  the  Castiglione  Palace,  and  later  in 
the  dav  paid  La  Pernetta  a  visit  of  inquiry.  This 
he  did  deliberately,  feeling  that  he  could  afford 
himself  the  luxury.  "It  is  not  given  to  every 
young  man  in  the  world  to  play  the  part  of  a  sav- 
iour," he  said  to  himself.  "If  I  stung  the  soul  of 
that  deplorable,  pretty  woman  by  a  light  verse,  I 
did  as  well  as  Saint  Benedict  of  Norcia,  who  made 
an  oration  to  a  dozen  of  them,  and  moved  no  more 
than  I  did.  She  has  been  a  baggage,  and  put 
great  heart  into  the  business.  Who  knows  what  she 
may  become  under  my  handling?" 

He  found  her  pensive  and  bashful;  she  had  been 
weeping,  but  her  disorder  became  her.  She  was 
soft,  lax,  repentant,  and  rapturous  at  once — a 
troubled  Magdalen,  but  a  Magdalen  pur  sang.  He 
took  her  hand,  and  asked  her  how  she  did;  he 
thanked  her  warmly  for  her  advocacy;  was  ver\^ 
discreet,  gentle,  dispassionate;  he  treated  her,  in- 
deed, as  if  she  were  a  lady  of  condition,  flattered 
and  tormented  her  at  once.  After  premonitory 
signs  of  approaching  storm,  quivering  lip  and  heav- 
ing breast,  she  suddenly  threw  herself  with  passion 
at  his  feet,  and  clasped  his  knees. 

223 


Tend   ndocnturcs 

"  Save  me,  save  me,  sir,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  am  bad, 
but  would  be  better.  I  am  a  shame  before  all  the 
world — an  animal — " 

"You  are  wrong,"  says  Nello;  "nobody  is  shame- 
ful who  feels  himself  so.  Nobody  is  below  his  nat- 
ure who  knows  it.  How  did  Nature  make  us  men  ? 
To  be  free,  generous,  pious!  How  do  we  know  that  ? 
In  this  way:  what  other  creature  blushes?  What 
other  creature  is  capable  of  shame  ?  Noi;ie.  Pernetta, 
by  your  blushes  you  are  saved." 

She  looked  at  him,  kneeling  there  before  him, 
open-mouthed — in  wonder.  "Are  you  sent  from 
God  to  be  my  salvation?  Are  you  an  angel — a 
messenger  from  Heaven?" 

"Who  knows?"  said  he.  "I  desire  your  salva- 
tion. You  are  too  handsome  to  be  wicked ;  it  is 
horrible  waste.  I  would  have  you — I  would  have 
all  women — remember  what  they  are — poets  at 
once  and  their  poems,  painters  and  their  pictures. 
Good  Heavens,  Pernetta,  if  my  song,  which  dies 
with  the  shutting  of  the  lips,  moved  you  to  whole- 
some tears,  how  much  the  more  might  that  lovely 
person  of  yours,  quick  so  long  as  your  blood  throbs, 
move  your  sisters  to  wholesome  living!  My  friend, 
there  are  two  things  worth  doing  in  this  world — 
one  is  to  be  at  peace,  the  other  to  declare  it.  These 
are  what  poets,  philosophers,  and  gracious  women 
can  best  accomplish,  but  few  others.  So,  then,  you 
and  I  are  in  the  fair  way.  What  have  I  gained  by 
peace  of  mind?     The  Cardinal-Regent's  friendship, 

224 


Cbc   Eooe   Cbase 

your  friendship,  a  fine  velvet  suit,  and  an  Arabic 
grammar!  What  may  you  gain?  Your  own  re- 
spect; mine,  if  you  care  to  have  it.  Pursue,  Per- 
netta,  pursue.  To  be  breathless,  to  be  torn,  to 
flush,  to  pant,  to  crush  the  breast,  these  are  no 
ways  to  peace  of  mind.  Forgetfulness  is  not  peace, 
but  assured  memory,  rather.  Adieu — be  your  own 
poet,  your  own  poem.  Live  your  music  before  the 
world.     We  shall  meet  again." 

"Oh,  talk  to  me  again,"  she  implored.  "Touch 
me — 

"Never,"  said  Nello;  "but  I  will  certainly  see 
you  again.     Adieu,  my  sister." 

"That  is  a  woman  of  great  appetite,"  he  told  him- 
self. "I  can  imagine  her  becoming  a  very  glutton 
for  frugality  one  of  these  days.  I  will  make  use 
of  her  when  I  need  her — which  is  not  now.  Unless 
I  am  greatly  mistaken  she  has  done  with  Coan 
vests  and  scented  ointments  and  crowns  of  blown 
roses.  Will  she  become  a  saint  or  a  wife?  She 
might  be  both,  with  care,  especially  if  she  have 
children." 

The  rest  of  his  day  was  spent  in  his  lodging  with 
a  lamp.     He  began  the  study  of  Arabic;  but  first 
he  wrote  to  his  friend  Politian. 
IV.  The  Vow  in  the  Wood 

Messer  Nello  Nelli,  the  golden-haired  little  hu- 
manist, having  been  started  in  life  with  a  patron, 
experience,  and  an  Arabic  grammar,  I  must  go  be- 
hind the  scene  to  set  up  some  other  figures  for  my 

225 


Tond   Jldoentures 

stage.  It  is  a  common  mistake  of  the  story-teller's 
— perhaps  a  generous  fault — to  suppose  the  busi- 
ness of  our  planet  suspended  while  his  hero  buckles 
on  his  greaves  and  sets  his  lance  in  rest  to  go  out 
and  conquer  it.  He  ought  to  remember  that  this 
poor  globe  is  peopled  with  such  heroes,  who  are  all 
bent  on  the  same  enterprise  at  her  expense,  and  that 
through  their  clashing  together  and  frequent  slaugh- 
ter business  is  actually  carried  on.  Nello  Nelli  had 
been  racing  for  the  goal  since  his  fourteenth  birth- 
day, and  had  no  notion  but  that  he  was  sure  of  his 
prize.  He  had  heard  by  report  of  Simone  dell  a 
Prova,  the  Black  Dog  of  Cittadella  and  hired  sol- 
dier of  Venice,  for  all  North  Italy  had  heard  of  his 
doings ;  but  how  was  he  to  guess  him  a  competitor  ? 
What  had  he  to  do  with  condottieri — he  the  scholar, 
poet,  saviour  of  Magdalens,  student  of  Arabic  ?  But 
the  three  women  in  the  mountain-glen  who  weave 
the  thread  and  keep  the  shears  at  hand  (as  he  at 
least  devoutly  believed)  had  another  spool  to  un- 
wind, whose  yarn  was  to  cross  his  own.  Long  ago, 
when  Nello,  at  fourteen  or  so,  was  kissing  the 
hand  of  mature  Donna  Zenobia,  Simone  della 
Prova,  two  years  older,  was  kissing  the  cold  lips 
of  Emilia  Fiordispina,  a  child  of  scarcely  Nello's 
age. 

La  Colombina,  they  called  her,  because  of  her 
quiet  allure,  her  sleekness  and  gentle  ways;  pet 
names  she  always  had — La  Madonnina  was  one  of 
them,  and  La  Nina  another,  to  be  given  her  in  due 

226 


Cbc   Coce   €Da$e 

time  by  her  mates  at  the  Court  of  Milan,  when  the 
soft  dove-habit  was  to  be  in  danger  of  soiUng,  and 
the  soft  dove's  ways  were  to  be  the  only  shield  she 
could  have.  But  this  is  to  anticipate  her  story 
and  Nello  Nelli's,  to  whose  coincidence  we  approach 
by  sure  stages.  The  tale  finds  her  now,  a  growing 
slip  of  a  girl,  with  but  little  trace  of  that  enigmatic, 
pondering  beauty  for  which  she  was  afterwards 
made  famous  by  Luini's  pencil,  in  the  arms  of 
Simone  della  Prova,  swearing,  in  response  to  his 
fierce  adjurations,  a  little  matter  of  eternal  fidelity. 
They  were  alone  in  a  myrtle  thicket,  the  hour  the 
tired  close  of  a  long  August  day.  The  sun,  low 
in  the  sky,  covered  them  with  a  cloud  of  gold-dust, 
warmed  her  white  gown,  and  set  his  buff  on  fire. 
Like  a  pitiful  epitome  of  the  Lovers'  Hell  (the 
tragedy  in  small,  jigged  by  puppets)  was  the  scene 
— dusky  fire,  clinging  figures,  straining  and  despair, 
kisses  which  could  not  satisfy  and  hearts  which 
could  not  believe.  So  straitly  he  held  her,  so  fierce 
were  his  words,  if  this  were  matter  of  life  to  him, 
it  might  be  one  of  death  to  her. 

"Swear,  my  EmiUa,  swear!  Swear  by  the  Holy 
Virgin  and  her  tears;  by  her  most  bitter  tears  over 
the  body  of  her  Son,  and  by  all  tears  of  unhappy 
women,  that  you  love  me  forever." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  swear  it — I  have  sworn  it,  my  love." 

"Swear  by  the  True  Cross  and  Him  that  hung 

there  all  day  long;  by  the  Five  Wounds,  the  Sponge, 

and  the  Spear;  by  the  Crown  of  Thorns  and  the 

227 


Tona   Jldocntures 

threefold  writing  over  the  Holy  Head!  Swear,  my 
Emilia,  swear!" 

"Oh,  dear  Simone,  dearest  love,  dearest  soul,  I 
swear,  I  swear!  Ah,  but  you  hurt  me,  dear  love. 
I  am  frightened — but  I  shall  die  of  this  love!" 

Her  words,  rather  than  her  faint  struggle  to  free 
herself,  moved  him  to  set  her  free.  He  did  it,  how- 
ever, and  stood  looking  at  her  as  moodily  as  if  she 
had  denied  him  everything.  This  made  her  trem- 
ble, and  her  eyes  to  search  his  timidly  as  if  asking 
for  a  spark  of  belief.  Simone's  arms  were  folded 
over  the  place  where  she  had  been ;  he  was  scowling 
as  if  he  knew  for  certain  that,  as  they  held  nothing 
now  but  emptiness,  so  she  would  never  fill  them 
again.  He  was,  I  take  it,  of  that  exorbitant  sort 
which  always  feels  empty.  He  was  a  handsome, 
swarthy,  hulking  young  man,  magnificent  to  look 
at,  built  after  the  antique  Roman  fashion — cropped 
in  the  head,  low  and  square  in  the  brow,  stern  and 
square  in  the  chin,  with  fixed  lips  and  sullen,  deep- 
set  eyes.  Of  his  strength  there  could  be  no  doubt; 
it  ran  through  him  from  within  to  without,  and 
transfigured  him.  He  was  flat  in  the  right  place — 
his  calves  were  flat,  and  his  upper  arms;  so  were  his 
brows  and  the  broad  stretch  from  cheek-bone  to 
ear.  He  looked  cruel,  but  was  not  so  by  nature; 
he  was  perfectly  ruthless,  however,  and  could  only 
think  of  one  thing  at  a  time. 

Of  the  child  before  him  now  there  is  not  much 
more  to  say.     Her  beauty,  which  was  not  then  re- 

228 


Cbe   Cooc   Cbase 

markable,  lay  in  her  hair,  in  the  shape  of  her  head, 

in  her  eyes — dark  gray  shot  with  black.  She  was 
growing  fast,  was  thin,  was  very  pale,  even  to  the 
lips;  but  her  mouth  had  begun  to  take  the  curve 
of  the  bow  which  Luini  made  immortal,  and  already 
she  could  make  the  most  of  herself.  Young  as  she 
was  she  had  her  troubles  before  her;  for  here  was 
Simone  della  Prova,  after  all  her  oaths,  scowling 
at  her  as  if  she  had  done  him  a  wrong. 

Woman-like,  she  began  to  coax  him  as  soon  as 
she  dared,  to  woo  the  evil  out  of  him  by  deference 
and  caress.  She  snuggled  near,  she  slipped  one 
hand  into  his,  she  put  another  on  his  shoulder, 
then  stroked  his  hair.  Simone,  very  full  of  his 
trouble,  did  not  stay  her.  He  found  himself  listen- 
ing to  the  cooing  of  her  voice  much  against  his 
will. 

"Dear  Simone,  what  will  your  poor  child  do 
without  you?  All  Peschiera,  all  the  blue  lake,  all 
the  islands  for  her  alone!  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
look  upon  the  mountains  without  tears,  nor  watch 
the  boats  draw  in,  nor  walk  in  the  meadows — you 
will  be  gone!  What  will  become  of  Emilia?"  She 
sighed  as  she  lifted  his  brown  hand  and  stroked  her 
cheek  against  it.  Simone  quivered,  but  said  noth- 
ing. She  pursued  him  and  her  thought — "Ah,  my 
Simone,  never  forget  me!" 

He  looked  at  her  then.  "Forget  you?  O 
Christ!  She  blushed,  exulted  in  him,  laughed  her 
glory. 

229 


Tottd   JIdpentures 

"I  would  be  happy  with  that  cry  in  my  ears. 
Listen  to  what  I  shall  do  when  you  are  gone.  Every 
morning  after  mass  I  shall  light  a  candle  before  the 
Madonna  del  Lago,  and  pray  to  her  for  you  and 
me.  'Madonna  mia,'  I  shall  say,  'keep  me  for 
Simone,  the  bravest,  the  noblest,  and  the  best — '" 

"Ah,"  he  groaned,  "you  will  have  need  to  pray. 
You  will  grow  old  praying." 

"Wait,  wait.  Nobody,  not  even  my  mother  will 
know  why  I  do  this  devotion — nobody,  not  even 
Father  Pandolfo.  You  do  not  confess  your  merits, 
but  only  your  sins.  And  this  will  be  a  merit,  I 
am  sure.     Will  it  not  be,  Simone?" 

She  waited  for  his  assurance,  but  did  not  get  it. 
Simone  was  fighting  his  despair — very  real  to  him 
at  this  hour.  Emilia  leaned  to  him,  and  took  his 
chin  in  her  little  white  hand.  La  Colombina,  they 
called  her  later,  when  she  was  wiser  but  not  more 
wheedling  than  now.  Her  voice  was  very  low  and 
calling;  it  sounded  hurt,  it  appealed. 

"Must  it  be  to-morrow,  dear  one?  Can  we  not 
have  to-morrow — the  feast  of  the  Assunta?  We 
could  begin  my  devotion  together." 

"Pooh,"  said  Simone,  his  face  to  the  sky,  "pooh, 
devotions!  There  will  be  no  time  for  such  things. 
I  must  be  in  the  saddle  with  the  light.  You  know 
that  I  must  go." 

"To  fight  for  the  Republic!" 

Simone  squared  his  jaw,  and  took  some  bitter 
comfort  from  the  fact  that  he  was  to  fight  against 

230 


the  party   of  his  beloved — his   cruel,   about-to-be-  | 

faithless  beloved.     "To   fight   against  your  Milan, 
at  least." 

"You  care  against  whom  you  fight?  Not  on 
whose  account?     You  hate  many,  love  but  one?" 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  those  storm-wrecked 
eyes  of  his.  She  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say, 
and  thrilled  to  know  it  coming.  He  took  her  in 
his  arms  again. 

"I  love  nobody  but  you — nobody.  Why  should 
I  love  the  Republic?  I  am  no  Venetian,  Deo  gra- 
tias  !  It  is  true  that  they  have  always  been  friends 
of  my  house,  and  my  house  of  them — but  what  of 
that?  I  fight  because  I  have  my  way  to  make. 
Love?  It  is  you  I  love — you — you."  He  sealed 
his  words  upon  her  lips.  "Dearest  Simone,  you 
are  my  lover  indeed,"  sighed  the  little  Emilia. 

The  sun  was  down,  it  began  to  grow  dusk  all  at 
once.  Emilia  shivered  and  longed  suddenly  to  be 
alone.  She  was  tired  to  death.  "They  will  come 
to  look  for  me;  I  must  go,"  she  pleaded. 

"Listen  first — then  you  shall  go."  She  clung  to 
him,  obedient  to  the  call,  looking  up  into  his  hard 
face.  Her  two  imploring  hands  were  on  his  breast. 
But  he  put  her  away,  made  her  stand  alone  and  in 
front  of  him.     It  became  rather  like  a  lecture. 

"I  love  you  so  cruelly  that,  in  truth,  my  heart 
seems  to  me  afire.  I  know  not  whether  I  am  to  live 
or  die  in  the  fighting,  but  this  I  know  well,  that  I 
had  sooner  die  believing  you  true  than  live  on  in 

231 


Tend   Jidvcnturcs 

the  state  I  see  ahead.  I  have  a  mind  to  kill  you 
myself  where  you  stand — that  you  might  die  with 
no  other  kisses  on  your  lips  than  mine,  and  no 
other  name  but  mine  upon  your  tongue.  That 
would  be  the  only  certainty,  I  do  believe.  You 
are  a  child;  you  have  no  strength,  as  men  have, 
no  purpose,  no  will  of  your  own.  You  will  be  easy 
to  bend  this  way  or  that  way.  They  will  seek  to 
betroth  you,  to  marry  you  here  or  there — by 
Heaven,  they  will  be  at  you  day  after  day.  Now, 
I  tell  you,  Emilia,  that,  as  I  shall  be  unutterably 
true,  look  at  no  women,  think  of  none  but  you,  so 
I  shall  expect  of  you.  Is  that  too  much?  If  I,  a 
man,  can  do  that,  cannot  you  ?  A  man's  nature  is 
different  from  a  woman's — it  does  more,  it  asks  and 
needs  more.  Why,  I  am  setting  myself  an  enor- 
mous task  in  this  pledge.  If  I  prove  false — but 
let  us  not  talk  of  absurdities.  If  you  prove  false, 
Emilia,  I  shall  kill  you.  Certainly  I  shall  kill  you. 
It  would  be  just.  God  would  demand  it.  Is  it 
not  so?" 

"Yes,  Simone,  it  would  be  just."  She  looked 
deplorable,  drooping  there  before  him,  and  felt  as 
though  she  had  been  beaten.  Such  a  lover  was  a 
glory — but  ah!  he  was  terrible  in  this  mood. 

"And  now  we  must  part,  my  child,  my  girl,  my 
dove — "  He  tried  to  hold  himself  sternly,  and 
might  have  succeeded  if  he  could  have  kept  her  at 
a  distance.  But  at  the  first  break  in  his  voice  her 
own  sorrow  broke  over  her  like  a  wave.     She  was 

232 


Che    Ecoc    ehasc 

in  his  anns  again,  sobbing  her  fear,  her  abandon- 
ment, imploring  him  not  to  leave  her,  not  to  love 
her  so,  not  to  frighten  her,  to  love  her  more.  This 
pure  tide  of  her  miser}'  knocked  out  his  guard:  two 
children,  they  clung  and  kissed  together,  tearing 
the  ver\-  heart  out  of  passion.  "My  soul,  my 
white  dove.  Let  no  one  call  thee  Colombina  but 
me'."  She  swore  him  that  also.  Was  there  any- 
thing she  would  not  have  given  him  then  ? 

From  beyond  the-  trees,  up  from  the  darkling 
sheeted  lake  came  the  stroke  of  a  bell.  One  by  one 
the  belfries  of  Peschiera  took  up  the  cr\-.  They 
started  apart.  Emilia  held  her  side.  "Oh.  I  must 
go,"  she  said,  brokenly ;  but  '"  Xo:  yet."  said  Simone, 
"come  to  me."  This  was  more  than  she  could 
bear — she  fell  on  her  knees,  hid  her  face,  and  wept 
unfeignedly.  She  frightened  and  humbled  him;  he 
dared  not  touch  her.  At  the  last  deep  clangor  of 
the  bell  she  rose,  and  sHpped  guiltily  through  the 
trees.  As  for  Simone.  he  cried  unto  God,  not  with 
his  voice,  and  threw  himself  face  to  the  ground. 
There  the  night  dews  found  him.  there  the  stars. 
VI.  The  Lover  and  the  Lass 

What  the  parents  of  this  Colombina  were  about 
to  allow  such  desperate  heart-probings  as  I  have 
had  to  relate  can  be  easily  explained.  They  knew 
nothing  about  them,  and  were  too  htmgry  to  in- 
quire. Spinello  Fiordispina  was  the  lord  of  a  tower 
and  a  few  leagues  about  it,  including  a  strip  of  the 
shore  of  Garda.  In  his  dark  old  stronghold  down 
i6  233 


Tond*j)docnturc$ 

there  he  maintained  himself  and  Monna  Lucia,  his 
wife,  his  two  old  sisters,  his  Colombina,  and  some 
twenty  servants,  on  what  he  could  exact  from  the 
fishermen  of  the  place.  That,  in  fact,  was  very 
little;  whence  it  arose  that  care  for  the  bodies  of 
all  these  people  usurped  the  rights  of  their  more 
subtle  needs.  It  was  literally  a  matter  of  food 
sometimes.  His  family  was  ancient,  the  towers 
and  poor  lands  about  them  represented  what  had 
once  been  a  great  fief  of  the  Empire;  and  just  in 
the  same  way  he  himself  was  a  ruin.  He  had  been 
a  notable  warrior  in  his  day,  warring  in  Tuscany, 
Umbria,  on  the  March,  here  and  anywhere  with  old 
Sforza-Attendolo,  founder  of  the  robber-house  of 
Milan.  When  that  renegade  shepherd,  and  king  of 
men,  went  down  in  the  flood,  whither  he  had  swept 
his  enemy's  horse,  Spinello  found  that  he  was  too 
old  to  stomach  the  new  Sforza — or  the  new  Sforza 
may  have  found  himself  too  young.  At  any  rate, 
Spinello  was  squeamish;  he  knew  he  was  a  good 
man  still,  but  doubted  he  was  getting  past  his  work. 
He  was  painfully  sensitive,  sniffed  about  for  offences 
where  none  were,  and  thought  that  he  could  detect 
an  odor.  He  withdrew  himself,  his  dignity,  and 
his  spearmen,  to  Garda,  and  was  chagrined  to  find 
that  the  affairs  of  Milan  continued  to  prosper. 
This  embittered,  while  it  stiffened  him.  It  also 
caused  him  to  be  exceedingly  hungry. 

His  own  affairs  certainly  did  not  prosper.     His 
spearmen  ate  up   every  green    thing.     He   had   to 

234 


Cbe   Cope   Cbasc 

disband  them,  to  sell  land,  to  see  some  slip  from 
him  without  price  asked  or  offered.  At  the  time 
I  am  now  reporting  his  household  was,  as  I  have 
put  it — three  old  ladies,  Colombina,  twenty  ser- 
vants, himself,  and  Simone  della  Prova — rueful, 
reckoning  for  the  Lord  of  a  tower,  a  Fiordispina, 
and  a  knight  of  the  Empire. 

What  was  this  shrunken  gentleman  doing  with 
a  Simone  della  Prova  in  his  household  ?  It  is  to 
be  remembered  that  he  was  a  great,  as  well  as  a 
shrunken  gentleman,  and  the  holder  still  of  fine 
old  traditions  of  warfare.  None  knew  this  better 
than  another  battered  warrior,  Malipiero  della 
Prova,  lord  of  Cittadella,  that  red  citadel  within 
turreted  walls  which  may  still  be  seen  by  the  trav- 
eller much  as  it  was  in  an  earlier  day.  Della  Prova 
had  always  taken  the  other  side — he  was  too  near 
Venice  to  do  otherwise,  just  as  Fiordispina  was  too 
near  Milan;  but  though  they  had  dealt  each  other 
hard  knocks,  they  had  no  less  mutual  esteem — in- 
deed, they  had  more.  It  was  in  an  interval  of 
peace  that  the  old  Venetian  sent  his  boy,  Simone, 
to  Garda  to  learn  the  arts  of  knighthood  from  a 
man  who  had  proved  his  science  to  Cittadella's 
detriment.  And  while  Simone  learned  those  arts, 
he  learned  others,  as  we  have  seen. 

That  young  Simone,  swarthy  in  blood  as  in  hue, 
a  fighter  by  inheritance,  proved  an  unconscionable 
lover.  It  was  an  affair  of  a  moment;  the  child 
Emilia,   whose  gravity  made  her  look  older  than 

235 


Tend   Jl(l()cnturc$ 

her  little  tale  of  years  could  warrant — those  pon- 
dering eyes  of  hers,  that  sweet,  slow  smile,  the  pallor 
and  tired  grace  she  had  even  then — stung  him 
sharply.  Instantly  he  stormed  the  enemy,  stormed, 
fired,  and  had  her  at  discretion.  She  had  no  time 
to  judge,  no  leisure  to  choose,  no  choice,  no  voice. 
He  assumed  the  position  of  her  lover  before  she 
knew  that  she  loved.  She  never  did  really  love. 
She  was  gentle,  she  was  timid,  greatly  flattered  by 
the  homage  of  this  wild,  scowling  youth;  she  was  a 
girl,  she  was  twelve  years  old,  she  was  lonely — and 
what  more  is  there  to  say?  She  was  a  very  sweet- 
tempered,  meek-mannered  child,  who  could  never 
refuse  anything  to  any  one.  When  Simone  came 
spurring  up  to  storm  her  with  cries  to  surrender, 
she  lowered  the  flag  at  once.  The  donjon  was  his, 
and  he  sat  down  as  tyrant  of  the  poor  little  city. 
There  were  sweets  for  the  conquered,  of  course. 
It  is  sweet  to  dispense  one's  bounties,  and  sweet 
to  be  needed.  She  had  cool,  soft  hands.  Simone 
brought  her  headaches  to  be  cured,  fits  of  the  sulks, 
fevers  to  be  soothed,  horrible  suspicions  to  be  ex- 
plained away.  He  scolded  her,  threatened  her,  was 
madly  and  unreasonably  jealous — he  thought  that 
no  girl  who  was  loved  should  kiss  her  parents' 
hands;  and  as  for  Father  Pandolfo,  the  old  priest, 
O  horrible!  why,  she  owned  that  she  loved  him! 
She  suffered  more  than  can  be  said,  but  she  never 
dreamed  of  rebellion ;  and  it's  not  to  be  denied  that 
she  had  hours  when  her  glorious  estate  as  the  be- 

236 


CDe   Cope   Cbasc 

loved  of  so  strenuous  a  youth  seemed  almost  more 
than  she  could  bear.  She  responded  wonderfully 
to  all  his  moods;  she  was  penitent,  ardent,  passion- 
ate, thoughtful,  virginal  as  he  willed  her.  Of  course 
he  learned  to  play  upon  her  as  upon  an  instrument, 
and  got  the  most  piercing,  whispering,  or  wailing 
music  from  her  that  ever  you  heard.  For  two 
years  he  scorched  himself  and  drained  her  thus; 
then  came  the  summons  to  arms :  Mantua  and  Milan 
at  war  with  Venice;  he  must  join  his  father  in  the 
cause  of  the  Republic.  The  children  were  torn 
apart;  Simone  scoured  away,  riding  on  a  storm- 
cloud  of  his  own  brewing.  Her  last  sight  of  him 
had  been  with  his  sword  in  his  hand,  threatening 
her  from  his  horse,  daring  her  to  forget  him,  daring 
her  to  let  some  other  mouth  her  name;  and  for 
weeks  afterwards  the  poor  girl  sat  dry-eyed  in  the 
myrtle  woods,  remembering  her  hero;  or  prayed 
without  end  before  the  Madonna  del  Lago;  lit  up 
Httle  candles  in  secret;  crisped  her  little  hands; 
held  her  little  fooHsh  heart,  and  wondered  sadly 
why  it  did  not  ache;  looked  about  her  askance,  half 
in  panic,  half  in  awe,  at  a  new  world  which  coidd 
be  so  dispassionate,  or  at  daily  customs  which 
could  dare  go  on  while  Simone  was  so  far  and  she 
so  forlorn. 

She  was  wretched  that  she  could  not  be  more 
wretched;  her  conscience  tormented  her  as  cruelly 
as  Simone  had  ever  done.  For  six  months  she 
dragged   herself   about,    white   and   weak,    hoUow- 

237 


eyed,  listless,  and  morose.  Then  the  fever  spent 
itself;  she  heard  nothing;  Simone  was  no  penman. 
She  still  believed  herself  wretched,  still  lighted  lit- 
tle candles  and  prayed  to  the  Madonna — the  ritual 
itself  was  her  best  comforter.  The  snow  came 
down,  Garda  had  a  rim  of  ice;  the  days  crept  out, 
the  almonds  flowered ;  there  were  orchids  and 
fritillaries  in  the  water-meadows,  cyclamen  in  the 
woods.  Spring  came  laughing  into  Lombardy  with 
the  sound  of  the  shepherd's  pipe;  and  Emilia,  turn- 
ed fourteen,  began  to  peer  about  for  columbines, 
her  own  flower.  The  year  went  peacefully  round; 
no  word  from  Simone,  no  rumor  of  him,  made  all 
the  difference  to  the  girl.  Behold  Emilia  at  fifteen, 
a  maiden  grown — and  behold  her  if  you  can  as 
Luini  painted  her,  of  womanly  parts  and  wisdom 
so  early  compact,  with  the  considering  eyes  and 
heavy  eyelids  of  a  beautiful,  much-courted  woman, 
the  mysterious  smile  of  a  woman  with  secrets  which 
amuse  her,  but  the  curves  and  tender  bloom  of  a 
girl  to  make  her  the  more  dangerous.  Luini's  pict- 
ure, now  at  St.  Petersburg,  calls  her  La  Colombina, 
and  shows  her  in  a  dress  of  loose  brocade,  caught 
at  the  bosom  by  a  jewel,  but  leaving  one  breast 
bare,  with  a  hand  holding  jasmine  in  her  lap,  the 
other  delicately  lifting  for  contemplation  the  flower, 
her  namesake.  Her  hair  is  crisped  and  plaited 
closely,  to  show  the  shape  of  her  head ;  it  is  brought 
below  and  round  the  ears.  It  represents  Emilia 
at  twenty;  she  had  lovers  then  and  to  spare,  and 

238 


C^e   Eoce   Chase 

less  matter  for  pleasant  thought  than  for  patience 
to  be  got  out  of  them.  It  is  a  more  mature  Emilia 
than  we  can  yet  consider,  but  all  the  charms  so 
ripely  there  were  in  bud  at  this  earlier  age.  She 
was  sleek  at  fifteen,  dainty  in  movement,  dainty  in 
pose,  deliberate  in  speech,  witty  when  she  chose, 
demurely  sharp  in  reply  without  being  malicious. 
She  was  very  kind,  and  in  her  ways  showed  it;  her 
hands  besought  your  patience,  her  head  was  meekly 
disposed ;  she  had  quick,  affectionate  motions ;  wom- 
en always  liked  her,  and  without  meaning  it  she 
had  a  fatal  charm  for  men.  Much  as  she  was  in 
flower  at  twenty,  such  she  was  in  bud  at  fifteen, 
when,  in  a  straight  silk  gown  of  white  and  red,  with 
a  necklace  of  pearls  and  a  fillet  of  silver  daisies  for 
her  hair,  with  a  deep  -  red  cloak  and  hood  of  the 
same  for  her  journey,  she  kissed  her  parents  and 
two  old  aunts,  and  rode  brightly  forth  into  the 
world  to  begin  her  adventures.  She  was  for  the 
Court  of  Milan,  to  be  maid  of  honor  to  the  Duchess 
Bianca.  It  was  nearly  three  years  since  she  had 
watched  Simone  ride  away  to  the  wars  and  had 
been  threatened  by  the  gleaming  of  his  sword.  She 
had  heard  nothing  of  him  since,  and  his  name,  if 
ever  mentioned  in  talk,  caused  her  no  distress. 
That  day  of  her  going  there  had  been  no  time  to 
light  a  candle  before  the  Madonna  del  Lago.  It 
had  often  happened  so  before,  but  never  before  had 
she  forgotten  the  omission.  She  remembered  it  at 
Brescia  where  they  baited  the  horses.     The  stab 

239 


was  momentary.  And  at  Milan  I  must  leave  her 
with  this  remark,  that  among  the  many  things  she 
learned  there  which  a  girl  needed  or  needed  not 
to  know,  the  lighting  of  a  votive  taper  to  keep 
memory  green  was  not  one.  It  had,  indeed,  been 
nearer  her  desire  more  than  once  to  propitiate  the 
shrouded  altars  of  the  Gods  of  Silence  and  Oblivion. 
But  as  for  Simone  della  Prova,  he  had  forgotten 
nothing.  He  was  not  of  the  kind  that  forgets. 
The  constant  lover,  it  may  be,  is  the  man  that 
most  loves  himself,  and  cannot  bear  that  the  least 
speck  should  mar  the  adorable  surface.  Simone 
would  have  died  a  hundred  deaths  sooner  than  face 
the  thought  that  he  could  forget  or  be  forgotten — 
but  Emilia  would  have  died  first.  Clinging  to  his 
faith  in  her,  which  was  really  part  of  his  faith  in 
himself,  he  performed  what  was  required  of  him 
by  his  nature — sweated,  bled,  fought,  drilled,  and 
killed  men.  There  was  a  league  against  Venice  in 
those  days:  Sforza  of  Milan,  Bentivoglioof  Bologna, 
Gonzaga  of  Mantua,  joining  forces,  worked  to  stem 
back  the  Republic  within  her  marshy  lagoons.  On 
the  side  of  Venice  was  young  Simone,  with  his  Cit- 
tadella  as  an  outpost  to  the  North.  The  war  went, 
as  Italian  wars  always  did,  with  varying  fortunes, 
and  more  attention  to  the  moves  of  the  game  than 
its  objects;  but  there  was  enough  blood-shedding  to 
show  young  Della  Prova  as  a  master.  With  two 
hundred  horsemen  behind  him — young  men  raised 
and  dragooned  by  himself — he  scoured  the  Southern 

240 


Cbc   Cove   Cftasc 

country,  killing,  burning,  pillaging.  He  excelled 
in  avoiding  dangers  and  countering  upon  the  dan- 
gerous. On  one  occasion,  notably,  he  escaped,  by 
hard  riding,  a  large  body  of  Milanese  horse  sent  from 
Vicenza  to  cut  him  off,  crossed  the  Euganeans  by 
night,  and  swept  down  upon  the  Mantuan  camp  at 
Legnago  in  the  plain  before  sunrise.  In  that  en- 
counter, though  he  spared  no  one  in  his  path,  he 
had  his  horse  killed  under  him.  Wounded  in  the 
shoulder,  half  a  dozen  of  his  men  bore  him  off  the 
field  under  the  very  eyes  of  Cardinal  Guido  Gon- 
zaga,  the  warrior-priest  of  Mantua.  That  great 
man,  however,  forbade  any  pursuit  of  a  youngster 
so  heroic.  "No,  no,"  he  said,  "let  him  live  to 
wear  the  spurs  he  has  won  from  us.  Who  is  the 
young  man?" 

They  told  him  it  was  Simone  della  Prova,  called 
the  Black  Dog  of  Cittadella,  and  that  the  Devil 
was  his  friend. 

"A  useful  ally,"  said  the  Cardinal.  "Where  did 
he  learn  arms?" 

"His  father,  my  lord,  old  Malipiero,  was  a  great 
leader ;  but  this  fellow  was  for  two  years  with  Messer 
Spinello  Fiordispina  of  Garda,  who  was  a  greater." 

"Certainly  he  was,"  said  the  Cardinal;  "nobody 
knows  it  better  than  I  do.  I  remember  him  in 
Calabria.  It  is  a  noble  blend  that  should  come 
out  of  those  two  old  tigers.  I  must  keep  an  eye 
upon  Master  Simone — truly,  a  promising  youth." 

When  Simone's  father  died,  and  he  reigned  in- 

241 


Totia   Jldpenturcs 

stead   of  him  as  Lord   of  Cittadella,   the  Cardinal 
fixed    two    eyes    upon    him    instead    of    one.     He 
thought  he  saw  a  way  of  ending  the  weary  war. 
VII.  The  Black  Dog  of  Cittadella 

About  a  month  after  his  patronage  of  Nello,  so 
benevolently  bestowed  and  happily  accepted — in 
September — wath  a  retinue  of  not  more  than  fifty 
horse,  Cardinal  Gonzaga  started  on  a  mission;  in- 
deed he  started  upon  two.  Nello,  very  trim  and 
very  gay — seeming  to  be  the  more  resplendently  in 
health  for  his  black  habit — rode  by  his  side,  and 
received  his  confidences.  Some  half  -  dozen  chap- 
lains, cassocked  and  big-hatted  on  mules,  who  were 
in  the  next  rank,  carried  with  them  all  the  signs  of 
churchmanship  which  His  Eminence  chose  to  dis- 
play; the  Cardinal  himself  rode  out  as  a  warrior, 
resplendent  in  arms. 

"A  man  of  my  rank,"  he  observed,  "keeps  his 
mind's  eye  for  Heaven,  but  with  his  bodily  organs 
directs  the  world.  God  is  not  to  be  mocked  by 
the  ill-ordering  of  that;  and  Mantua  with  the  do- 
minions thereof  are  my  immediate  concern.  We 
have  a  very  delicate  task  to  perform,  my  Nello, 
with  which  I  regret  to  say  the  Church  has  little 
to  do." 

He  outlined  the  case  for  his  young  friend's  con- 
sideration. Mantua  was  at  war  w^ith  Venice — 
Mantua  and  Milan  in  league.  Milan  was  extreme- 
ly necessary  to  Mantua,  the  big  to  the  little;  but 
it  was  by  no  means  so  clear  that  the  converse  could 

242 


tbe   Cooe   CDase 

be  maintained.  Sforza,  in  fact,  was  languid;  he 
did  not  prosecute  the  war  as  he  had  promised;  he 
was  half  minded  to  make  peace.  If  he  did  that 
Venice  might  swallow  up  Mantua.  The  Cardinal's 
business,  therefore,  was  to  make  friends  elsewhere 
in  case  of  need,  but  by  no  means  to  give  up  hopes 
of  Sforza.  He  intended  for  Milan  to  arrange  a 
marriasre  between  his  niece  Dorotea  and  Sforza's 
heir,  Galeazzo  Maria;  but  first  of  all  he  was  going 
to  Cittadella.  Did  Nello  know  why?  Nello  did 
not. 

"Did  you  ever  hear,"  asked  the  Cardinal,  "of  the 
Captain  of  Cittadella?"     Nello  nodded. 

"Of  Simone  della  Prova — the  Black  Dog,  as  they 
call  him?  Eminence,  yes.  I  heard  of  him  when  I 
w^as  in  Padua.  He  was  a  fighting  youth — a  very 
demon  of  the  blood  and  dust.  But  he  is  for  Venice 
— it  is  an  old  alliance.  Men  used  to  say  that  he 
learned  warfare  of  Milan,  to  use  it  against  them. 
He  was  the  idol  of  Padua  in  my  day,  much  trusted 
bv  the  Republic.  All  women  were  in  love  with  him, 
if  for  no  better  reason  than  that  he  would  never  look 
at  one  of  them.  Hippolytus,  the  son  of  Theseus, 
was  not  more  chaste  than  he." 

"We  shall  see,  we  shall  see,"  said  the  Cardinal. 
"I  am  going  to  pay  him  a  visit:  so  much  has  been 
arranged.  He  and  I  have  met  once  before — in  the 
field.  It  was  at  Legnago,  where  he  made  a  dawn 
attack  upon  our  camp  and  gave  us  a  couple  of  hours' 
exquisite   anxiety.     We   rallied,  however,  and  beat 

243 


Tend   jfld^^cnturcs 

him  off.  The  fellow  was  wounded;  I  might  have 
had  him,  and  he  knew  it.  But  I  admired  him,  and 
let  them  carry  him  off — and  he  knew  that  also.  I 
believe  he  hated  me  for  it ;  but  I  cannot  think  him 
without  a  bottom  of  generosity.  It  is  for  you  and 
me  to  tempt  that  out  of  him,  my  Nello.  Tell  me 
something  more  of  his  habits.  Women,  you  say, 
made  no  appeal  to  him?" 

"I  think — none  at  all.  He  seemed  to  be  proof. 
Preoccupation  may  account  for  that." 

"In  what  way,  my  friend?" 

"A  man  of  that  sort,  Eminence — an  unreason- 
ing, furious  man — is  generally  chaste  because  he  is 
a  lover.  It  may  be  of  a  woman,  it  may  be  of  him- 
self, it  may  be  of  warfare  or  statesmanship,  or  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin.  It  may  even  be  of  virtue; 
but  this  is  rare  in  a  captain  of  horse.  As  a  rule,  I 
should  say  that  the  love  of  women  is  a  solace  to 
every  man  of  action  who  does  not  happen  to  be 
the  lover  of  one  woman  in  particular — or  of  him- 
self." 

"I  think  you  may  be  right.  Indeed,  that  is  how 
I  have  found  it.  But  now — ^was  our  man  quarrel- 
some?" 

"He  was,  Eminence." 

"Ruthless?" 

"I  understood  it." 

"Revengeful?" 

"Bitterly." 

"Gluttonous?" 

244 


CDc   £ooc   Gbasc 

"A  hearty  eater,  I  think." 

"A  wine-bibber?" 

"I  never  heard  it." 

"Then  you  consider — ?" 

"I  consider  that  this  man  scorns  all  women  born 
for  the  sake  of  one.  Her,  I  think,  he  does  not  love 
for  the  sake  of  her  beauty  or  virtue  so  much  as  be- 
cause she  is  his.  I  conceive  him  perfectly.  He  is 
like  a  great  beast  of  the  desert  who  sets  his  paw 
upon  some  prey,  not  to  adjust  it  for  his  meal,  but 
to  mark  it  for  his  property.  His  possession  of  the 
thing  thereafter  becomes  essential  to  his  comfort, 
because  to  lose  it  would  be  to  lessen  his  value  in 
his  own  eyes." 

"All  this  is  very  acute,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "but 
I  do  not  see — " 

"Eminence,"  replied  Nello,  "this  Simone  was 
trained  in  the  castle  of  Spinello  Fiordispina,  an 
old  Milanese  soldier.  I  think  it  very  possible  that 
he  is  tied  body  and  soul  to  the  slim  waist  of  some 
Lombard  girl."  Nello's  prescience,  no  doubt,  was 
a  thing  of  calculation.  He  knew  very  well,  by  re- 
port, that  Simone  considered  himself  betrothed. 
But  the  Cardinal  evidently  had  7iot  known  it.  Our 
young  friend  took  his  profit  where  he  found  it. 

So  talking,  they  went  their  way  through  the 
burnt  gardens  and  by  the  dusty  roads  of  the 
Venetian  March.  They  reached  Vicenza,  at  a  push, 
by  night  —  or  as  near  it  as  was  prudent  to  go. 
Next  morning   the   Cardinal  was  up  and  stamping 

245 


Tond   Jfdpenturcs 

in   the    court -yard    while    Nello   was    rubbing    his 
eyes. 

"We  must  go  carefully  to-day,"  said  master  to 
man.  "I  don't  anticipate  any  treachery  from  our 
friend,  but  it  is  quite  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 
We  will  place  an  ambush  at  Sampietro  and  keep  in 
touch  with  them.  You  and  I,  with  twenty  spears, 
will  push  on  to  Cittadella." 

The  Cardinal  was  right — there  was  no  treacher}^ 
The  gates  of  Cittadella,  a  grim  little  fortress  town, 
spiked  and  towered,  were  wide  open;  the  Mantuans 
were  received  with  elaborate  respect.  The  Prefect 
of  the  city,  the  Bishop  and  his  Chapter,  stood  be- 
fore the  citadel ;  the  keys  were  presented  on  a  dish, 
taken  by  the  Cardinal,  and  punctiliously  returned  to 
their  former  keeping.  The  visitors  rode  into  the 
piazza,  dismounted  there,  entered  the  Cathedral 
church,  and  heard  a  solemn  mass.  The  Lord  of 
Cittadella,  the  Lord  Simone  della  Prova,  was  ex- 
pected momently  from  a  raid ;  meantime  the  citi- 
zens hoped  that  His  Eminence  would  break  his  fast 
in  the  Vescbvado  hard  by.  The  retinue  would  be 
entertained  at  the  public  charge  in  the  court -yard 
of  the  Palazzo  del  Govemo.  The  Cardinal,  very 
urbane,  very  much  the  great  bow  unstrung,  rubbed 
his  gross  hands  and  smiled  his  thanks. 

At  the  stroke  of  noon  hoarse  cheering  by  the 
gates  announced  the  coming  of  Simone.  The  Car- 
dinal went  out  to  the  balcony  of  the  Vescovado  to 
watch  him  in. 

246 


CDc   Copc   Cbase 

"Now,  now,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  I  shall  have 
something  to  show  you,"  he  said,  eagerly,  flicking 
his  fingers  together,  whetting  his  lips  like  a  child 
at  a  play.  Nello,  to  whom  a  man-at-arms  was  but 
a  clothes-peg,  or  perhaps  a  stand  for  ironmongery, 
was  amused.  But  the  Cardinal,  more  than  half  a 
soldier,  had  an  unaffected  delight  in  the  display; 
his  eye  caught  the  first  glimmer  of  spears  above 
the  massed  heads  in  the  piazza. 

"Here  is  the  young  wolf  of  the  Veneto,"  said 
he  aloud,  "homing  to  his  lair  —  and  with  booty 
between  his  paws,  by  the  Cross!"  It  is  true,  there 
were  prisoners — allies  of  the  Cardinal's,  no  doubt. 
But  he  was  here  incognito. 

The  cavalry  came  jingling  by  at  a  quick  walking 
pace,  three  hundred  of  them,  young  men  all.  As 
they  reached  the  piazza  they  opened  out  and  took 
the  sides  of  the  square,  so  as  to  hold  back  the  peo- 
ple with  a  hedge  of  arms.  The  enclosed  space  was 
bare,  save  for  three  or  four  officials,  a  sinister  figure 
in  red,  and  the  huge  gallows,  which  (it  was  under- 
stood) was  never  taken  down,  and  very  seldom  out 
of  exercise  in  these  days. 

If  Nello  noticed  this  gloomy  apparatus  the  Car- 
dinal did  not.  His  thoughts  were  centred  upon  the 
troops.  Their  body-clothes  were  red  and  yellow, 
their  armor  blue  steel;  upon  the  pensels  of  their 
spears  they  showed  within  a  bordure  the  badge  of 
Simone  della  Prova  of  Cittadella — a  black  dog  on 
a  white  field.     All  rode  black  horses,  of  which  they 

247 


fend   Jldoctiiurcs 

seemed  to  be  parts ;  it  was  truly  as  if  a  herd  of  cen- 
taurs had  been  drilled  to  obedience.  Behind  them 
came,  on  foot,  a  sorr>^  crew  of  chained  prisoners, 
the  scouring  of  some  burned  village — men,  women, 
children,  all  white  with  dust,  all  limping  footsore, 
bound  neck  to  neck.  Mothers  some,  and  some  to 
be  so  soon;  bearded  men,  and  young  boys  with 
eyes  not  yet  too  tired  to  be  incurious — they  had 
no  special  guard  set  on  them  but  their  chains. 
Last  of  all,  riding  alone,  driving  this  rout  of  wild 
creatures  and  their  prey,  armed  completely  in 
black  steel,  bareheaded  and  scowling,  came  the 
Black  Dog  of  Cittadella  himself — Simone,  a  sullen 
young  God  of  War.  He  took  not  the  smallest 
notice  of  the  people's  acclamation — they  cried  him 
"Cane!  Cane!  Evviva  Simone!" — nor  of  the 
grouped  grandees  on  the  Bishop's  balcony;  the 
Cardinal  of  Mantua  was  nothing  to  him  at  this 
moment  of  still  triumph;  Nello  was  aghast  at  such 
pride.  He  sat  his  horse  as  if  man  and  beast  were 
carved  out  of  one  block;  his  face  was  nearlv  as 
black  as  his  look,  burned  deep  by  the  sun;  he  held 
his  head  high,  but  had  lowered  eyelids — scorn, 
not  modesty,  bent  them.  The  only  hint  of  atten- 
tion to  living  thing  which  he  gave  was  to  his  horse. 
Once  he  leaned  over  the  crest  and  seemed  to  speak 
in  the  beast's  ear.  The  Cardinal  noticed  that  the 
flanks  had  been  fiercely  spurred;  but  he  had  not 
seen  the  sudden  prick  of  the  ears  with  which  the 
fine  animal  heard  his  master's  whisper.     This  Nello 

248 


did  see,  and  it  gave  him  food  for  thought.  The 
day  was  before  him  when  he  was  to  know  Simone 
and  his  horse  to  fatal  purpose.  When  the  Cardinal, 
therefore,  slapped  his  thigh,  and  said  aloud,  "By 
the  eyes  of  God,  this  is  a  great  captain!"  his  secre- 
tary was  bound  to  agree  with  him,  though  unwill- 
ingly. "I  pity  from  my  soul  the  man  or  woman 
who  is  in  the  power  of  this  Dog,"  thought  he.  "This 
is  a  wild  beast,  dowered  by  Heaven,  for  some  in- 
scrutable reason,  with  the  superior  rapacity  of  a 
man."  The  little  humanist  was  faced  like  a  cherub, 
but  he  could  criticise  with  the  Assessing  Angel. 

What  followed  justified  his  reason,  while  it  drove 
him  back  to  unreason.  It  made  a  child  of  Xello 
again — frightened  him,  appalled  him,  made  him 
furious,  as  children  are  when  they  have  been  fright- 
ened. In  a  breathless  silence — a  silence  from  vic- 
tims and  witnesses  ahke — the  Black  Dog  hanged 
every  one  of  his  prisoners.  Nello's  breast  began  to 
heave  at  this  terrible  sight;  he  could  hardly  stand, 
yet  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  seeing.  And  while 
his  heart  wailed,  his  mind  must  needs  admire  the 
awful  elements  of  the  tragedy ;  the  young  Condottiere 
out  there  in  the  empty  space,  motionless  on  his 
black  horse,  the  figure  of  a  dream;  the  silent  haste 
of  the  executioner,  the  despairing  silence  of  the 
butchered  (when  scarcely  a  boy  cried  above  a 
whimper) ;  the  hush  over  all  the  people.  Nello  clench- 
ed his  teeth,  clenched  his  hands,  gripped  the  ground 
with   his   toes.     "Ah,  fiend  of  hell!     Ah,  blockish 

17  249 


Tona   Jf doettttires 

devil!     Ah,  smear  upon  the  day's  face!"     Tears  of 
impotent  rage  scalded  his  young  eyes. 

The  Cardinal  was  puzzled,  yet  profoundly  inter- 
ested. "I  set  no  limits  to  the  scope  of  this  fine 
young  man,"  he  said  to  Nello.  "For  aught  that  I 
can  see  he  may  be  Doge  of  Venice  or  Patriarch  of 
Christendom,  if  he  have  a  mind  for  such  trifles! 
He  may  be  imperial  Caesar— what  is  to  stay  him  ? 
Not  I,  you  may  say.  Wait,  wait.  I  am  a  man 
also." 

"But — but — oh.  Eminence!  he  has  hanged  the 
women  and  boys!"     Nello  was  sobbing. 

"Curious,  curious,  curious!"  said  the  Cardinal. 
VIII.  Nello  as  Recorder 

When  the  meeting  took  place  the  Cardinal's 
curiosity  was  gratified.  The  Black  Dog  received 
his  august  visitor  in  the  Palazzo  del  Governo,  bowed 
stiffly,  kissed  with  perfunctory  stiffness  the  ringed 
hand,  then  invited  His  Eminence  into  the  Council 
Chamber.  The  Cardinal  entered,  followed  by  Nello 
and  his  letter-bag;  Simone  walked  in  after  them, 
alone,  and  deliberately  shut  and  locked  the  door. 
No  doubt  the  Cardinal  took  a  quicker  breath;  but 
the  other,  without  lifting  his  eyes,  handed  the  key 
to  Nello. 

"Keep  it,"  he  said  shortly.  "We  use  no  treach- 
ery in  Cittadella;  but  you  need  not  know  that." 

Nello  took  it  in  silence  and  dropped  it  on  the 
table.  He  had  such  a  loathing  of  the  man  at  this 
time  that  he  could  hardly  hold  a  thing  polluted  by 

250 


Cbe  Cove  Cbase 

his  touch.     Was  it  not  drenched  in  blood — the  blood 
of  the  poor? 

The  Cardinal,  bursting  with  wonder,  began  with 
a  question,  which  he  begged  his  young  friend  to  an- 
swer with  a  soldier's  frankness.  Why  had  it  been 
necessary  to  hang  the  prisoners  ?  Simone  looked 
him  fully  in  the  face. 

"That  question  can  be  easily  answered,"  he  said. 
"Your  Eminence  is  here  to  deal  with  a  man  of 
whom  you  know  little.  I  thought  it  proper  that 
Your  Eminence  should  know  more."  The  Cardinal 
was  delighted,  rose,  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  suspected  it!  A  rare  stroke!  Young  sir,  we 
will  shake  hands,  if  you  please.  I  am  face  to  face 
with  a  plain  bargainer.  Trust  me  now,  as  you  deal 
with  me,  so  I  with  you."  Nello  felt  himself  blush 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  O  Shades  of  Academe! 
O  fading,  classic  Porch!  O  greensward,  where  the 
Muses  dance  enlaced!  Where  were  ye,  O  clean- 
breathed  groves?  To  such  men  as  these  two  traf- 
fickers of  souls  poor  tarnished  Pernetta  were  a 
wholesome  lass. 

They  settled  to  business,  the  Cardinal  very  large 
and  suave — Simone  keen,  quiet,  and  stiff  as  a  rod 
— Nello  behind  them,  covering  his  eyes  with  his 
hand.  The  Cardinal  praised  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
populace,  who  knew  their  master  and  the  benefi- 
cent severity  of  his  rod;  the  other  shrugged  ever  so 
slightly,  to  show  his  contempt  of  the  populace. 
The  appearance  and  discipline  of  the  troops  came 

251 


Tond   Jiapcntures 

next  in  review — "as  clean  a  company  of  horse  as 
I  have  seen  since  I  served,  with  Fortebraccio  in 
Calabria,"  said  the  Cardinal  with  conviction. 
Simone  never  blinked  an  eyelid.  He  was  waiting. 
But  so  was  his  opponent. 

"You  will  remember,"  the  Cardinal  went  on, 
steadfastly  urbane,  "that  I  have  reason  to  know 
something  of  their  valor.  We  have  met  in  the 
field,  Simone." 

"I  remember  it  very  well,"  replied  the  young 
man.     "I  drove  you  out  of  Legnago." 

The  Cardinal,  who  had  deliberately  provoked 
this,  and  had  been  waiting  for  it,  suddenly  changed 
his  manner  and  his  voice  with  it.  His  eyes  grew  nar- 
row and  hard;  his  smile  remained,  but  had  stiffened. 

"I  think  you  should  remember  it  indeed.  You 
were  wounded  in  the  groin,  your  shoulder  was 
broken  under  your  horse,  I  think?" 

Simone  nodded.     "It  is  true." 

"You  were  surrounded  by  men — by  the  enemy 
— by  men  in  red  and  white." 

Simone's  eyes  flashed,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"But  you  were  not  made  prisoner,"  said  the 
Cardinal. 

The  youth  started  up,  red  in  the  face.  "No,  by 
the  splendor  of  God,  I  was  not." 

The  Cardinal  rose  in  his  turn,  and  towered  above 
the  other.  Nello  was  struck  by  the  stern  strength 
latent  in  his  bulk. 

"I  will  tell  you,   Simone,"   he  said,   "why  you 

252 


Cfte   Eove   £Da$e 

were  not  taken  in  chains  to  Mantua,  why  you  were 
not  treated,  it  may  be,  as  you  treated  those  dazed 
wretches  this  day.  It  was  because  I  called  my 
men  off.  It  was  because  I  saw  stuff  in  your  hot 
head  too  good  for  a  short  rope  and  seven-foot  post. 
You  owe  your  life,  your  generalship,  your  gallows, 
and  your  brave  displays  to  my  clemency.  Now, 
sir,  are  you  disposed  to  treat  a  Prince  of  the  Church 
and  a  Gonzaga  with  civility?" 

The  whole  thing  had  been  finely  done,  and  Nello 
saw  that  it  was  to  be  successful.  Simone  tried 
bluster,  and  looked  as  if  he  might  try  worse.  He 
looked,  for  that  matter,  murderous,  and  for  some 
two  minutes  or  more  the  issue  may  have  been  in 
doubt.  But  Nello  had  no  need  to  snatch  at  the 
key.  The  Cardinal  was  superb,  plainly  the  greater 
man;  Simone,  with  all  the  rage  which  burned  in 
his  deep-set  eyes,  could  not  hold  out  beyond  that 
brace  of  minutes.  He  mumbled  some  kind  of 
apology — a  soldier's  life,  distance  from  courts,  etc. 
— and  pointed  to  the  chairs,  not  yet  cold.  The  Car- 
dinal, quite  easy  after  his  little  triumph,  sat  down 
at  once,  crossed  his  leg,  and  took  up  the  discourse 
as  if  nothing  had  disturbed  it. 

"I  have  heard,"  he  said,  "of  the  death  of  Mali- 
piero,  your  father,  and  regret  the  fact,  though  not 
the  manner  of  the  fact.  To  die  of  a  sword,  with  a 
sword  in  his  hand,  was  to  die  as  he  had  lived,  as 
you  doubtless  hope  to  die.  It  was  a  brave  end  to 
a  brave  chain  of  events." 

253 


Tona   Jfaocntures 

The  storm  had  not  yet  cleared;  but  the  young 
man  showed  some  consciousness  of  the  honor  done 
to  his  father. 

"With  such  an  example  before  us,"  continued 
Gonzaga,  "I  could  not  hesitate  for  a  moment  to 
make  the  suggestion  I  make  now,  this — namely, 
that  you  should  throw  the  weight  of  Cittadella  and 
your  array  into  the  scale  against  the  Republic.  You 
know  Mantua,  Simone,  and  whether  it  can  be  a 
generous  foe.  Judge  from  that  what  sort  of  a  friend 
it  may  prove.     You  know  Milan,  too^ — " 

Simone  said  fiercely,  as  if,  Nello  thought,  he  felt 
himself  being  pushed  against  the  wall,  "You  should 
have  asked  my  father  whether  his  house  loved 
Milan." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "I  prefer 
to  ask  his  son.  You,  at  least,  know  something  of 
Milan.  You  studied  arms  under  Spinello  Fiordi- 
spina,  an  old  ally  of  that  duchy."  He  watched  his 
man,  and  Nello,  watching  too,  saw  the  telltale 
flame  kindle  in  eyes  and  dusky  cheeks.  He  knew 
the  meaning  of  that.  Simone,  it  seemed,  could  not 
trust  himself  to  speak.  His  lips  moved,  fashioned 
a  word — one  word;  but  neither  of  his  companions 
could  read  it.  Certainly,  however,  a  shot  had  gone 
home. 

"If  then,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "you  can  think 
kindly  of  Fiordispina,  you  can  hardly  refuse  merit 
in  Fiordispina's  allies,  patrons,  friends — the  Duke 
of    Milan,  the    Marquess  of    Mantua.     Believe   me, 

254 


Cftc   Cooc   Cbase 

they  are  solid  men,  with  solid  benefits  to  confer  on 
those  who  love  them,  however  late  in  the  day.  I 
am  not  inviting  you  to  turn  your  coat  at  a  vent- 
ure. I  am  inviting  you  to  fight  with  Spinello 
Fiordispina,  your  old  friend — and  mine."  After  a 
pause  he  added,  "I  am  now  going  to  Milan." 

It  was  deeply  interesting  to  Nello  now  to  see 
Simone  struggling  against  unexpected  odds.  At  the 
name  of  Fiordispina  he  had  watched  him  fire,  at 
that  of  Milan  he  saw  him  blench,  as  though  in  the 
one  he  exulted,  but  feared  the  other.  What  was 
the  connection?  What  was  the  missed  clue? 
Here  was  the  blood-botched  despot  morally  on  his 
knees  at  the  mere  name  of  Milan. 

"Milan,"  Simone  stammered — he  had  lost  his 
breath — "you  go  to  Milan!  You  will  be  in  Milan 
in  a  day — two  days?" 

"That  is  my  intention,"  said  the  Cardinal,  bland- 
ly.    "Can  I  do  you  a  service  there?" 

Simone  was  tearing  at  himself,  to  get  his  breast- 
plate away.  He  broke  the  straps  of  the  gorget, 
wrenched  the  mail  apart,  threw  it  with  a  clatter  on 
the  flags.  He  fumbled  in  his  leather  doublet,  his 
eyes  all  alight,  his  breath  most  short.  Flushing 
like  any  boy,  he  produced  a  something  from  his 
bosom,  a  something  which  he  kept  smothered  in 
his  fist,  and  stood  with  it  before  the  Cardinal.  He 
stared — his  words  came  in  jerks.  "All  I  have  is  in 
Milan — at  this  hour — four  years  it  has  been  there 
— ^without  a  word — ^without  a  sign.     What  I  have 

255 


suffered  —  perdition!"  He  stopped  suddenly  as  if 
he  had  betrayed  himself — then,  "No,  no,  I  must 
speak — now,  at  last,"  he  grumbled  to  himself. 

He  addressed  the  Cardinal.  "If  you  go  to  Milan, 
Eminence,  you  may  serve  me  if  you  will.  Nay,  I 
will  say  this  much,  that  without  such  service  I 
shall  have  nothing  to  say  to  these  proposals  of 
yours." 

"Be  sure  of  me,  Simone,  my  friend.  In  what 
can  I  serve  you?" 

"There  is  at  Milan — in  the  service  of  Bianca  the 
Duchess — entrusting  her  honor  and  extreme  youth 
— there  is,  I  say — Pest!"  he  cried,  striking  his  fore- 
head, "I  am  no  speaker  of  such  things." 

"There  is  at  Milan — ?"  said  the  Cardinal. 

"There  is  a  lady  there,  Eminence,  a  lady  very 
young.  Madonna  Emilia  Fiordispina — maid  of  hon- 
or to  the  Duchess  Bianca.  She  is  betrothed  to  me. 
If  Your  Eminence  think  fit  to  reward  me  service  for 
service — " 

"It  shall  be  my  particular  care,  Simone,"  said  the 
Cardinal,  by  no  means  exhibiting  the  amusement 
he  felt.  "Having  sought  and  found  her,  my  friend 
— assume  both  in  my  favor — ^what  am  I  to  do  with 
her?" 

Simone  held  out  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  a  thin 
gold  ring — an  affair  of  a  twisted  wire,  having  a  blue 
jewel  in  a  loop. 

"You  will  say,  my  lord,  that  you  are  from  the 
Veneto,  bearing  this  token — but  name  no  names. 

256 


the   Coijc   Chase 

Much  hangs  on  this.  She  will  take  it,  smiling  a 
little,  a  little  lifting  her  eyebrows,  coloring  ever  so 
faintly,  for  she  is  by  nature  pale."  He  closed  his 
eyes  here,  and  seemed  as  if  dreaming.  "She  will 
ask  Your  Eminence  from  whom  is  this  token,  and 
to  what  intent.  You  will  say,  '  It  is  thus  con- 
signed :  To  La  Colombina,  from  him  who  only  knows 
that  name.'  That  is  all — my  name  need  not  be 
mentioned;  she  will  not  have  forgotten  it.  That 
title,  which  is  hers  by  right,  for  she  certainly  par- 
takes of  the  nature  of  the  dove,  will  be  sufficient 
reminder.  Xone  knows  it  but  she  and  I ;  none  has 
used  it,  I  am  certain  of  it.  There  is  the  utmost 
prayer  I  have  to  make  of  Your  Highness.  I  shall 
consider  your  attention  to  it  a  friendly  act.  The 
rest  may  be  a  matter  of  arrangement.  If  terms 
are  proposed,  I  will  consider  them — as  is  open  to 
me:  I  am  by  no  means  bound.  Should  they  approve 
themselves,  in  consideration  of  your  service  per- 
formed, I  shall  be  prepared  to  become  the  friend 
of  Mantua." 

The  Cardinal  bestowed  the  ring  in  his  bosom. 
"You  will  be  friend  of  both  Milan  and  Mantua," 
he  corrected. 

"Of  Mantua,  Lord  Cardinal,"  said  Simone,  stead- 
ily, and  Nello  marked  that.     Gonzaga  shrugged. 

"As  you  will.  I  cannot  refuse  the  courtesy  you 
do  my  house.  Now,  shall  we  get  some  of  this  into 
writing?" 

"All  of   it,  as  you    choose,"  said  Simone,  hold- 

257 


Tond    fldpentures 

ing   up    his    head.      Nello   was    beckoned  into  ac- 
tion. 

The  youth  advanced  with  his  portfolio  to  the 
table,  and  sat  mending  the  head  of  a  pen,  ready 
with  a  cool  head,  though  his  heart  was  on  fire.  Boy- 
ish, or  even  girlish,  as  he  looked  beside  these  two, 
with  his  face  like  a  flower  and  his  head  in  a  cloud 
of  gold,  the  slim  and  buoyant  creature  was  as  tense 
as  a  bowstring,  and  could  have  strangled  Simone  by 
the  mere  strength  of  his  hatred.  Hatred!  The 
word  is  thin,  and  what  it  implies  was  worn  thin. 
He  had  hated  him  once  for  what  he  had  done — 
his  detestable,  cold  murdering;  now  he  loathed  him 
for  what  he  was  and  stood  to  be,  as  one  abhors  a 
dusty  snake.  A  snake  he  thought  him,  rather 
than  a  dog — flat-headed,  slit-eyed,  adust,  staring 
into  stupor  a  girl  with  the  neck  and  breast  of  a  dove. 
La  Colombina — poor  dove,  indeed,  under  this  freez- 
ing spell!  If  Nello  could  have  killed  anything  born, 
he  could  have  killed  Simone,  and  gone  singing  to 
Hell  for  it.  Beside  him,  in  his  Cardinal,  he  saw 
an  amateur  of  policy,  who  could  admire  the  intri- 
cate interworkings  of  brain  and  brain,  and  delight 
in  the  force  of  villain  as  well  as  hero.  This  was, 
he  would  argue,  a  lawful  state  of  the  soul.  And 
indeed  the  greater  strength  and  longer  calculation 
of  this  fine  Gonzaga  had  been  admirably  displayed. 
But  he  was  too  righteously  shocked  with  the  Con- 
dottiere  to  be  obsequious.  While  he  was  waiting  for 
the  word — his  pen  adjusted — he  looked  at  him  with 

258 


Cbc   Cooe   £ba$c 

grave,  undisguised  rebuke.  Simone's  scornful  eye- 
lids were  intolerable;  Nello's  not  once  blinked  be- 
fore them.  In  fact  he  looked  too  shrewdly  and  too 
long  to  please  the  other. 

"You  should  know  me  by  now,  Master  Scribe," 
said  Simone  with  a  scowl. 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  Nello  replied. 

"You  shall  know  this  much  of  me  at  once,  that 
this  is  not  a  cabinet  of  curiosities,  nor  I  here  to  be 
valued." 

Nello  looked  to  his  paper.  "So  much,"  he  said, 
"you  have  demonstrated."  No  more  was  said  be- 
tween them. 

Many  and  diverse  were  the  comments  of  Cardinal 
Gonzaga  as,  with  Nello  by  his  side,  he  pursued  the 
road  to  Milan.  He  congratulated  his  secretary 
highly  upon  his  remarkable  prescience.  "To  have 
touched  the  soft  spot  in  that  steel-trap  before  you 
set  eyes  on  him!"  he  crowed.  "Confess  now,  my 
Nello,  that  I  know  something  of  men.  That  was 
a  happy  day  for  me  when  you  w^ent  intcf  the  Gabbia. 
Mehercle !  but  you  read  your  Simone  like  a  church- 
book.  Now  we  must  see  what  you  can  do  with 
women.  My  notion  is  that  Monna  Colombina  will 
receive  her  token  with  mixed  feelings.  It  is  not 
every  young  woman  who  would  wish  to  be  fuel  to 
such  a  roaring  fire  as  our  friend  there." 

"Our  knowledge  of  women,"  said  Nello,  senten- 
tiously,  "is  apt  to  be  prejudiced  by  our  desire  to 
know  them.     The  fancy  imposes  a  portrait  before- 

259 


ToNa   jFldt^etttures 

hand,  from  which  it  does  not  willingly  depart.  I 
feel  very  sure  what  sort  of  a  lady  we  shall  find  La 
Colombina  to  be,  and  for  that  reason  beg  you  not 
to  prove  me." 

He  had  indeed  made  a  picture  for  himself.  "Very 
young — rather  pale — partaking  the  nature  of  a 
dove."  A  fair  thought — a  fair  soul  in  a  delicate 
body — and,  O  God,  under  the  paw  of  the  Black 
Dog!  "Here,"  he  considered,  "are  the  elements  of 
a  tragic  scene,  which  I  pray  Heaven  may  not  move 
across  my  vision.  Love  might  ruin  me."  And 
with  all  his  horror  and  hatred  of  Simone,  he  was 
forced  to  allow  a  sense  of  reality  in  the  fierce  youth. 
The  man  knew  what  he  wanted  and  how  to  get  it. 

Busy  as  he  was,  forecasting  and  reflecting,  he 
found  time  to  answer  a  letter  which  he  received  at 
Treviglio  from  La  Pernetta.  The  penitent  fair 
also,  it  seemed,  knew  what  she  wanted;  she  wrote 
in  an  ecstasy  of  renunciation: 

"Excellent  Messer  Nello,  my  unique  tutor,"  she  said, 
"I  let  you  have  this  news  of  me  because  I  desire  you  to 
praise  me.  I  have  wrung  the  necks  of  my  parrots,  and 
sold  my  black  slave-boy  Toffolo.  I  go  to  Mass  every 
day  and  fast  three  days  in  the  week.  I  have  begun  the 
study  of  Latin,  and  find  it  most  severe.  These  things  I 
do  that  I  may  attain  to  some  power  over  myself,  hoping 
that  I  may  find  approval  in  your  eyes.  I  am  well  in 
health,  and  keep  no  company.  I  drink  only  water.  It 
was  truly  said  by  you  that  the  pleasures  of  denial  are 
more  curiously  sweet  than  those  of  gratification.  I  am 
often  hungry,  but  get  happy  dreams  thereby.  I  kiss 
your  hands. 

"La  Pernetta." 
260 


« 

To  this  he  replied  very  shortly: 

"Madonna,  I  rejoice  in  your  account  of  yourself.  Soc- 
rates sacrificed  a  cock  to  .^sculapius,  you  parrots — to  the 
same  end.  Yet  I  would  warn  you  against  enthusiasm.  It 
is  better  to  feast  upon  dainties  than  to  grow  lean  on  visions. 
It  is  not  well  to  neglect  the  care  of  the  body,  for  that  is  a 
temple  made  by  the  hands  of  God,  and  always  fair  whether 
it  enshrine  a  saint  or  a  demon.  Beware  of  exaltation.  As 
to  water-drinking,  Epictetus  says  it  is  not  matter  for  self- 
flattery.  Do  it,  saith  he,  unto  ^^ourself,  and  not  unto  the 
worid.  'And  do  not,'  he  adds,  'embrace  the  statues;  but 
some  time,  when  you  are  exceedingly  thirsty,  take  a  mouth- 
ful of  cold  water,  and  spit  it  out,  and  say  nothing  about  it.' 

"Madonna,  keep  your  health  and  the  remembrance  of 
my  desire  to  serve  you. 

"Angelus  de  Axgelis,  Secretarius." 

IX.  The  Passionate  Quest 

True  to  his  conceptions  of  himself  as  a  states- 
man, it  was  no  emblazoned  captain  of  armed  men 
who  entered  the  Porta  Venezia  of  Milan  that  hour 
before  noon,  but  a  vested  Cardinal-Legate  in  cope 
and  mitre,  borne  in  a  great  swaying  chair,  with 
cross-bearer  and  singing  men,  with  hat-bearer  and 
ring-bearer,  with  torches  and  silver  trumpets — 
with  all  the  sanction  of  the  Vatican  on  his  sur- 
roundings, and  all  the  rune  of  the  Gospel  graven 
on  his  abstracted  face.  Cardinal  Guido,  indeed, 
as  he  fully  intended,  looked  superb;  strong  as  a 
saint  and  impassive  as  an  image  of  Caesar.  Sforza 
on  horseback  with  his  suite,  in  gilded  armor,  the 
ducal  sword  erect  before  him,  found  a  stiffer  than 
himself  in  this  vacant-eyed  effigy,  who  blessed  the 

261 


Totta   Hdvcnfurcs 

people  as  he  swayed  above  them,  and  passing  the 
Duke  without  a  sign,  and  the  balconied  ladies 
without  a  hint  of  knowledge,  was  carried  forward 
to  the  steps  of  the  Cathedral,  and  received  there, 
still  sitting  enthroned,  the  homage  of  the  Arch- 
bishop and  the  Chapter.  It  w^as  most  impressive, 
and  most  politic,  but  it  had  been  learned  on  the 
journey.  Just  as  in  little  Cittadella  the  tyrant  of 
the  town  had  kept  the  Prince  of  Mantua  waiting, 
so  now  Cardinal  Gonzaga,  in  towered  Milan,  taught 
Duke  Francesco  Sforza  his  place.  Nello  smiled  to 
know  it. 

''Policy,  policy!"  he  said  to  himself,  chuckling; 
"but  my  master  is  a  greater  man  than  I  thought 
him,  since  he  is  not  above  learning  a  lesson  from 
the  very  man  whom  he  has  recently  taught  one. 
Now  which  of  these  flowering  bosoms,  I  wonder, 
holds  the  Colombine  heart?"  If  the  Cardinal  saw 
no  ladies,  Nello  saw  many.  They  were  all  beauti- 
ful— so  much  so  that  he  swore  them  all  virtuous. 
From  one  glancing  head  to  another  his  eye  roved 
for  what  he  had  pictured  La  Colombina  to  be.  In 
front,  upon  a  draped  tribune,  were  the  princesses 
of  the  house  of  Sforza  with  their  mother,  or  her 
who  stood  for  such — fine,  bold-eyed  ladies,  Ippolita, 
Polissena,  Maddalena,  Anna:  behind  were  the  maids 
of  honor,  ranked  like  angels  in  a  fresco  of  Paradise. 
"Very  young,  rather  pale,  partaking  the  nature  of 
a  dove" — he  sought  among  these  beauties  to  fulfil 
his   words.     Whose  was   that   dividing   curtain   of 

262 


Cbc   tovc   Chase 

dark  hair?  Whose  the  moonUt  brow  it  draped? 
He  may  just  have  had  a  glimpse  of  EmiUa  Fiordi- 
spina,  but  nothing  to  what  she  had  of  him.  "There 
rides  a  beautiful  person,"  said  one  of  her  mates, 
with  a  nudge;  "look,  look,  Nina.  One  pace  behind 
the  litter — all  black  with  a  golden  head." 

"  He  is  lovely — but  not  all  black.     See  his  scarlet 
garter.     Who  should  he  be?     A  nephew?" 

"No,  no — not  he.  If  he  were  nephew  he  would 
be  before  the  chair.  'Tis  a  secretary — that  is  his 
livery.  He  is  a  servant  of  the  household." 
"May  be,  Isotta.  But  I  am  sure  he  is  wise." 
"  It  will  be  for  you  to  be  wise,  child,"  said  Isotta, 
"for  it  is  certain  he  looked  only  at  you."  For 
answer  Emilia  pinched  her  friend's  finger. 

After  high  mass  was  done,  sitting  on  a  throne 
in  the  Chapter  House,  the  Cardinal  received  the 
Duke  of  Milan.  Sforza,  grinning  fearfully,  came 
limping  in  between  two  of  his  gentlemen,  the  whole 
force  of  his  brocaded  court,  chamberlains,  chancel- 
lors, secretaries,  poets,  esquires,  historiographers, 
soothsayers,  Latin  orators,  behind  him.  Nello  had 
never  seen  his  patron  so  monumental  as  when 
Sforza,  old,  sanguine,  hacked  by  battle,  crept  pain- 
fully up  the  degrees  of  the  throne,  and,  looking  as 
if  he  could  mangle  it,  kissed  the  sacred  ring.  Gon- 
zaga  spared  him  nothing,  pitied  nothing  in  him. 
Neither  his  gout,  at  its  worst  that  day,  nor  his 
rank,  nor  the  villanies  he  had  done,  nor  those  he 
had  power  to  do,   saved  him  one  wriggle  up  the 

263 


Tend   Jfdpcnturcs 

steps,  one  inch  of  reverence.  So  with  the  others; 
all  proud  heads  must  stoop,  all  stiff  knees  be  bent. 
Galeazzo  Maria,  the  heir,  a  splendid  youth,  black 
and  white,  slim,  straight,  carven — down  he  must  go; 
Lodovico,  the  blond  prince,  Ascanio;  the  bastards 
— Don  Hermes,  Don  Tristan,  Don  Dioneo:  all  Milan 
must  abase  itself,  for  the  Cardinal  played  out  the 
game.  "Zeus  the  Olympian,  the  lightnings  bun- 
dled in  his  hand,"  thought  Nello,  admiring. 

After  the  men,  and  after  a  banquet  at  the  Castle, 
it  was  the  ladies'  turn.  The  household  of  the 
Duchess  received  all  the  benevolence  and  more 
than  the  scrutiny  which  they  looked,  -  for.  The 
Duchess  Bianca  was  a  stately  and  handsome  woman, 
in  a  fierce  snow-and-fire  sort;  her  excellence  was 
known,  and  her  Visconti  lineage.  The  Cardinal, 
after  her  obeisance,  raised  her  up  and  saluted  her 
forehead  in  a  brotherly  fashion.  He  patted  Donna 
Ippolita's  head;  Donna  Maddalena  he  touched  on 
the  chin ;  Donna  Polissena  on  the  cheek.  Last  came 
the  ladies  of  the  household — half  a  dozen  in  a  row 
— to  kneel  for  his  blessing.  La  Colombina  must  be 
here,  the  pledged  bride  of  the  Black  Dog  of  Cit- 
tadella,  the  dove  cowering  before  the  snake's  cold 
eye. 

The  Cardinal's  heavy  gaze  lurched  over  their 
ranked,  obsequious  heads,  wandered  to  their  young 
bosoms,  their  folded  hands.  Nello's  bright  glances 
were  untiringly  there,  casting  far  and  wide.  "Very 
young,  rather  pale,  partaking  the  nature  of  a  dove." 

264 


Cbc   Copc   ebdsc 

The  elements  pleased  him ;  the  picture  he  had  made 
from  them  pleased  him  more=  Now  he  would  see 
if  he  was  not  right. 

At  the  extreme  left  knelt  Isotta  de'  Nervi,  black- 
haired,  small-headed,  very  pale,  in  a  straight  robe 
of  black  with  gold  threads,  and  underdress  of  red. 
She  knelt  stififly  and  looked  straight  before  her. 
"Young  enough,  too  pale,  more /hawk  than  dove," 
said  Xello.  Alessandra  Ciappelletti,  a  Veronese 
lady,  was  next — color  of  Venice,  opal-pink,  golden 
and  white,  sumptuous  and  confident.  "An  impos- 
sible victim  of  Simone."  Francesca  del  Vescovo, 
like  a  clinging  silver  reed,  thin  and  swaying,  what 
of  her?  "I  reserve  her,"  said  Nello,  "though 
against  my  better  judgment.  Whom  have  we 
here  ?"  A  maid,  with  a  bent-down  head,  and  hands 
folded  at  her  neck,  came  next.  Her  lips  were  pale, 
but  a  smile  just  touched  and  seemed  to  tinge  them, 
as  the  sun  warms  with  color  a  wintr\^  landscape. 
"A  little  nun?  A  nun  in  Carnival,  pleased  and 
scared,  wan,^  and  hardy  at  once?  A  nun  in  green, 
with  rose -tipped  daisies  strewn  about  her!  She 
smiles  askance.  Why  ?  Timidity  ?  Partly.  Mischief, 
malice  ?  Partly  these ;  for  her  danger  may  teach 
her  to  be  dangerous.  She  is  pale,  smooth,  her  neck 
astonishingly  white;  she  hath  deep  gray  eyes!  De- 
mure, secret,  meek,  kind  as  the  earth.  Why  do 
you  look  so  wistfully  at  me,  little  lady?  Do  you 
know  that  I  have  conversed  with  you  already — in 
dreams?  Do  you  csLTvy  your  fate  in  your  face? 
18  265 


Tend   Jidpcnturcs 

Are  you  dedicated,  set  apart,  afraid  ?  Very  young, 
rather  pale — and,  by  Heaven,  she  wears  a  colum- 
bine in  her  breast!  You  are  she!  you  are  she!" 
He  had  no  thought,  no  eyes  left,  but  for  her. 

The  Cardinal,  after  his  benediction,  gave  his  more 
worldly  salutation.  He  held  the  hand  of  Isotta, 
kissed  the  cheek  of  Alessandra,  took  Emilia  by  the 
chin,  and  because  she  looked  down,  held  her  head  up 
that  she  might  be  seen.  "To  one  of  you  fair  maids," 
he  said,  as  he  held  her,  "I  have  a  message.  Which 
of  you  is  called  Madonna  Emilia?"  The  tremor 
of  what  he  held  in  his  hand  warned  him.  "Oho!" 
said  he,  "I  have  you.  Mistress  Emilia,  eh?" 

"Yes,  Your  Eminence,  indeed,"  says  La  Colom- 
bina.     The  others  looked  sideways  at  this  play. 

"There  is  time  enough  for  message  and  messen- 
ger, my  child,"  said  the  great  man.  "i\ll  I  hear 
of  you  is  good."  He  stooped  his  great  head  and 
kissed  her  on  each  cheek.  "One  for  m^^self  and  one 
for  a  friend  of  ours,"  he  added,  to  her  extreme  con- 
fusion. Nello  watched  him  as  a  cat  a  mouse.  "The 
bird  in  the  net  of  the  fowler.  Here  is  a  more  re- 
doubtable hunter  than  Simone."  He  felt  tliat  he 
might  grow  to  hate  his  master.  Was  he  jealous 
then?     Detestable  fact. 

Soon  after  this  the  reception  was  over.  The 
Cardinal  went  away  to  his  lodging  and  his  corre- 
spondence; but  he  trifled  with  it,  against  his  cus- 
tom— looked  out  of  window,  had  out  his  jewellery- 
boxes,  turned  over  cameos   and   gems — by-and-by 

266 


produced  Simone's  token.  "Here  is  a  reminder  of 
an  absurd  errand  of  ours,  less  poignant  than  that 
which  we  have  had  already,"  he  said.  "Simone's 
little  mistress  has  a  haunting  face — it  nauseates  me 
to  think  of  him  with  her.  What  m^^stery  in  those 
judging  eyes!  For  his  brute-staring  to  explore! 
What  touch  of  demure  mockery  in  those  frail  lips! 
As  if  she  could  smile  at  the  gross  follies  of  men 
while  she  bled  for  them.  Such  things  lift  her  out 
of  the  category  of  silken  flesh  and  rounded  limbs,  my 
Nello.  Women  have  few  charms  for  me  in  these 
days;  but  that  sleek  and  furtive  beauty  moved  me 
strangely.  I  must  see  her  again — certainly  I  must 
see  her  again."  He  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing,  as  he 
sat  there  by  his  window,  the  huge,  appetent  man, 
fingering  the  thin  gold  ring.  Here,  thought  Nello 
with  a  wry  face,  was  a  monstrous  big  dog  in  full 
cry.  What  disconcerted  him  precisely  was  that 
the  ver\^  thoughts  of  the  Cardinal  were  his  own. 
Pity  for  the  flying  prey  swallowed  up  his  disgust, 
and  made  his  growing  love — like  any  carnal  dealing 
with  such  a  filamental  thing — seem  profane.  To  pur- 
sue in  any  manner,  even  the  gentlest,  a  creature  so 
recluse  seemed  to  him  a  brutality.  What  was  he  then, 
but  another  dog  in  running — a  third  hound  in  the 
Love  Chase  ? 

Vitas  hinnuleo  me  similis,  Chloe — 
Alas,  alas! 

He  viewed  his  own  state,  too,  with  profound  dis- 
may.    It  disturbed  all  his  plans,  upset  his  theories, 

267 


made  his  stoicism  ridiculous.  But  he  could  not 
help  it.  He  now  loved  this  exquisite,  elfin,  hunted 
creature — claimed  by  Simone,  pondered  by  the 
thick  Gonzaga:  yes,  yes,  he  too  desired  her.  Not 
Epictetus  himself,  had  he  been  raised  from  the 
dead,  could  keep  him  from  haunting  Emilia  Fiordi- 
spina.  And  yet,  and  yet — there  were  a  hundred 
women  more  beautiful  than  she — and  not  one  of 
them  fit  to  kneel  before  her.  The  rose  and  gold, 
the  black  and  silver,  the  reedy,  the  voluptuous,  the 
sprightly,  the  pensive — not  one  of  them  availed  be- 
side La  Colombina,  who  went  so  secretly,  smiling 
to  herself,  who  said  so  little  and  judged  men  out  of 
her  gray  eyes,  and  was  under  the  paw  of  the  Black 
Dog,  and  now  overshadowed  by  the  huge  Molossian 
hound.  Love,  pity,  intense  curiosity  ached  in  his 
bones.  He  groaned  to  know  it,  but  could  not 
move. 

But  it  may  be  guessed  what  a  fine  tumult  raged 
in  the  maids'  bosoms  that  day,  and  not  in  theirs 
alone;  it  stirred  the  ladies  of  the  house  of  Sforza. 
The  Duchess  spoke  of  it,  spoke  to  the  girl  herself. 
"It  seems,"  she  said,  "that  you  have  attracted  the 
Cardinal's  attention,  child.  Let  me  advise  you  not 
to  count  upon  it.  These  great  gentlemen,  after 
dining,  feel  benevolent,  and  are  easily  induced  to 
acts  of  generosity  which  the  morning's  reflection 
dispels.  I  have  noticed,  my  child,  that  you  have 
the  power  of  attraction — you  meek  women  can  do 
that.     I  shall  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you  upon 

268 


Cfte   Lo^t   Cbase 

any  real  mark  of  favor,  depend  upon  it.     Now,  go 
to  bed,  my  dear,  and  don't  forget  your  prayers." 

Emilia  curtsyed,  kissed  hands,  and  withdrew. 
Isotta  de'  Nervi  looked  wisely  at  Sigismunda. 
Francesca  del  Vescovo  whispered  in  Alessandra's 
ear.  They  grew  very  respectful  to  their  mate — 
the  observed  of  an  Eminence!  But  Emilia  took 
the  episode  with  great  humility.  She  had  not 
lived  at  the  Court  of  Milan  four  years  without 
learning  something. 
X.  Angelic  Salutation 

The  usher  at  the  door  of  the  Duchess's  side  told 
Nello  that  Donna  Emilia  was  not  on  duty  at  that 
hour.  It  was  time  of  siesta.  "That  young  and 
pretty  lady,  sir,  loves  to  sleep  out-of-doors,"  said 
the  usher,  "and  I  understand  the  passion.  Very 
well  I  remember  that  when  I  came  up  from  the 
country — myself  am  from  Battaglia  among  the 
hills — I  was  always  for  running  out  of  house  to 
snuff  the  air.  I  used  to  weep  at  the  sight  of  the 
mountains  in  those  young  days,  sir:  a  trickle  of 
tears,  indeed!  Milan  seemed  to  me  a  prison,  a 
great  maze  of  brick.  Now  I'm  a  fireside  cat — 
you'd  never  guess  me  a  mouser.  Well,  well,  the 
city  drains  the  country  blood  out  of  us  soon  or 
late.  In  the  garden,  sir,  you'll  find  her.  Try  the 
long  walk  where  the  naked  ladies,  whom  they  call 
the  Graces,  are.  Graces  enough,  and  no  fear  of 
displaying  them,  in  their  ladyships.  My  old  mother 
would  have  had  smocks  on  them  the  first  night — 

269 


fold    jR  d  r  c  in  t  u  r  c  $ 

but  a  week  of  Milan  changes  all  that.  Hey!  what's 
a  little  nudity  hereabouts?  A  thousand  thanks, 
sir,  your  servant,  I  salute  you." 

Nello  had  come,  on  his  own  initiative,  to  deliver 
to  Emilia  the  badge  of  her  servitude;  but  he  had 
not  come  ingenuoush^,  but,  rather,  under  the  spur 
of  his  own  desire.  That  could  not  be  justified,  he 
knew  in  his  heart,  though  with  his  head  he  juggled 
hims^  into  some  sort  of  assurance  that  it  could. 
The  Cardinal,  engrossed  in  affairs  of  State — which 
were  not  going  too  well — had  forgotten  the  ring, 
the  linger,  and  the  ringed,  and  had  given  over  the 
business  to  his  secretary  with  a  "Va  via!  Get  it 
done  with,  and  come  back  to  me."  Nello  had  gone 
oat  to  find  her,  treading  on  air. 

He  had  seen  her,  on  some  pretext  or  another, 
every  day,  and  had  fallen  irrevocably  in  love  with 
the  Betrothed  of  the  Black  D<^.  He  fortified  him- 
sdf  with  sophisms ;  he  was  not  a  humanist  for  noth- 
ing. He  told  hims^  that  from  that  moment  of 
horror  when  the  wretch,  new  from  his  shambles, 
had  revealed  her,  he,  Nello,  had  been  her  sla^'e.  A 
pasdon  of  pity,  a  passionate  foresight  of  the  bound 
victim — this  white  Iphigenia,  "very  young,  rather 
pale";  a  passionate  certainty,  when  be  saw  her  in 
the  kneding  row  of  maids;  add  her  mystery,  her 
muUike  charm,  and  be  was  at  her  feet.  He  adored 
her  mutdy  for  a  week,  feeding  upon  chance  glimpses 
of  her  here  and  there.  He  bathed  in  her  light, 
drank  thirstily  of  the  air  about  her.     He  knelt  in 

270 


Cbe    Eope    CDasc 

the  same  church,  or  chapel  of  a  church,  went  to  the 
Porta  Giovia,  on  one  shift  or  another,  a  dozen  times 
a  day;  and  when  he  was  blessed,  he  went  again — 
and  when  he  was  not  blessed,  he  went  again.  He 
passed  her  in  the  crowded  streets,  and  stood  bare- 
headed till  she  was  by,  he  jostled  in  the  pack  about 
the  litters  when  the  Duchess  and  her  ladies  were 
to  take  the  air.  He  did  his  business  in  a  dream. 
Emilia  bent  her  head  over  his  pillow  as  he  closed 
his  eyes;  between  sleep  and  waking  in  the  morn- 
ings he  saw  her  shy  and  smiling  there.  He  was 
Endymion,  she  the  white  Goddess  of  the  Moon; 
once  he  dreamed  that  she  stooped  and  kissed  him. 
Awaking  with  a  cry,  he  saw  the  young  moon  clear 
beyond  the  window.  An  omen!  He  had  been  on 
Latmos. 

Here  is  enough  to  account  for  his  errand;  for 
mortal  man  cannot  feed  forever  on  dreams,  nor  is 
sight  enough  for  him.  A  craving  to  be  nearer,  to 
make  her  look  at  him,  to  make  her  conscious  of 
his  love,  to  make  her  speak;  the  knowledge  that 
he  could,  that  the  power  was  his;  the  temptation, 
crawling  and  deadly,  to  make  his  power  felt — why, 
by  one  word  of  Simone  he  could  make  her  catch 
her  breath,  tremble,  go  white;  and  by  another, 
spoken  from  his  knees,  he  could  comfort  her!  He 
fought,  but  could  not  resist.  Here  was  something 
stronger  than  himself,  under  which  a  man  the  most 
humane  may  be  turned  into  a  wolf.  He  pondered, 
he  prayed,  he  longed,   he  trembled — and  he  fell. 

271 


The  Cardinal  gave  over  to  him  ring  and  message. 
EmiUa,  poor  bird,  was  under  his  net. 

The  gardens  of  the  Palazzo  Porta  Giovia  were 
very  extensive.  Terrace  spread  beyond  terrace;  j 
vista  opened  upon  vista  of  white  statues,  balus- 
trades, trees  trimmed,  garlanded  pillars — a  wonder- 
ful order.  By  broad  steps  you  descended  through 
all  this  ranked  pomp  of  marble  and  leafage  to  the 
green  grass  alleys  hedged  with  cypress ;  half  a  dozen 
of  these,  like  rays  of  a  semicircle,  drew  the  eye  to 
a  distant  point — a  focus  of  all  the  garden's  wonder, 
the  pride  of  all  Milan,  a  group  of  the  Three  Graces 
intertwined,  supposed  by  Praxiteles.  There  was 
deep  shade  at  that  place,  a  little  grove  of  pines, 
a  fountain,  tall  grass.  There  Nello  found  EmiUa, 
pillowing  her  cheek  upon  her  arm,  coiled  and  asleep. 

He  stood,  tiptoe  and  breathless,  to  look  at  her. 
He  was  not  as  yet  so  much  in  love  w^ith  the  image 
he  had  fashioned  out  of  her  and  her  pitifulness  that 
he  could  not  admire  her  for  what  she  was.  In  sleep 
the  simple  thing  you  are  or  may  be,  the  child,  the 
savage,  or  the  beast,  comes  out  and  sits  upon  your 
quiet  brows,  and  looks  about  him.  The  cage  door 
is  open,  the  keepers  are  away;  out  he  comes;  you 
may  see  him  if  you  watch.  The  child  within  Emilia 
sat  now  full-faced,  without  fear,  for  Nello  to  won- 
der at.  All  her  defences  were  down,  all  the  little 
makeshifts  of  her  daily  life,  which  he  found  so 
pathetic,  and  loved  because  he  pitied — the  anxious 
lift   of   the  eyelids   at   some   strange   advance,   the 

272 


Che   Cooe   £ba$^ 

quick  response  of  the  brows,  the  fixed  smile  on  the 
hps,  which  commits  you  to  nothing — smoothed 
away  now  by  sleep's  soft  palms.  If  she  dreamed 
it  was  of  comfortable  things;  full  and  even  came 
her  breath;  still  her  hands  lay;  her  brows  were 
not  written,  her  lips  w^ere  unlocked.  Nello  sighed 
as  he  looked.  "Cruel  fate  that  makes  me  a  mes- 
senger to  this  lovely  thing!  Cruel  fate  that  de- 
nies me  the  right  to  guard  this  opening  rose!" 

He  felt  so  wicked — here  on  so  vile  an  errand — 
that  by  comparison  the  proffer  of  his  own  love  as 
a  protection  against  Simone's  seemed  to  him  the 
act  of  a  hero.  A  traitor?  Yes,  but  to  Simone, 
who  himself  was  a  traitor  broadcast.  How  many 
hearths  w^ere  staring  under  that  dastard's  stroke, 
how  many  souls  adrift,  how  many  fiends  abroad? 
Was  such  a  wretch  then  to  mar  and  mangle  at  his 
will '?  His  scythe  was  dripping  with  the  blood  of 
boys,  women,  children  at  the  breast.  Insatiable — 
like  the  Minotaur — he  fed  upon  the  flesh  of  virgins. 
Well,  here  was  Nello  ready  to  be  Theseus.  He 
told  himself  that  he  had  done  ill,  but  that  now  he 
was  to  be  redeemed.  His  eyes,  on  their  lift  to 
heaven  with  this  boast,  caught  sight  of  the  Graces, 
the  three  white  women  enlaced,  pure  as  the  marble 
in  which  they  lived.  In  his  fancy  he  saw  in  them 
the  threefold  soul  of  Emilia  escaped  from  her  sleep- 
ing body.     He  could  speak  to  them  freely. 

He  stood  before  them  with  stretched-out  arms,  like 
a  young  Adorante  at  his  service,  and  began  his  prayer. 

273 


"Pious  ladies,"  said  he,  softly,  "made  in  the 
image  of  the  tender  thought  of  God,  Thaleia,  Aglaia, 
Euphrosyne,  hear  me  when  I  cry.  In  secret  come 
ye  forth  from  your  fair,  discarded  house,  and  in  this 
marble  dwell;  but  I  come  praying  while  she  sleeps, 
that  not  for  long  ye  shall  depart  from  her,  but 
rather  abide  to  be  at  once  her  justification  and  her 
shield.  For  ye  are  her  soul,  O  women;  and  with- 
out you,  what  is  she?  A  shell  for  music,  a  soft  cas- 
ket whence  the  jewel  has  been  ravished.  Nay, 
since  I  do  indeed  believe  that  the  soul  is  true  Form, 
without  you  she  is  less  than  this.  Alas!  she  is  but 
the  pretty  matrix,  the  gem  for  the  graver.  It  is 
ye,  it  is  ye  that  are  the  true  seal;  it  is  ye  that  are 
the  young,  the  holy,  the  dawn-hued,  pious  Emilia. 
To  whom,  O  soul  of  Emilia,  I  devote  all  I  know, 
can  learn,  hope,  or  believe,  to  protect,  to  comfort, 
cherish,  and  defend  against  the  fret  and  clamor  of 
the  world."  He  thrust  forth  his  arms  in  an  ec- 
stasy; his  voice  took  ardor,  thrilled,  pierced,  and 
awoke  Emilia.  When  he  turned,  glowing  with  devo- 
tion, he  saw  her  wondering  gaze.  Still  flushed  with 
sleep,  the  child  not  yet  dethroned,  she  lay  prone, 
her  face  between  her  hands,  and  looked  at  him. 

"Are  you  an  angel?"  she  asked  him,  as  if  she 
dreamed  still.  The  sunny  golden  cloud  of  his  hair, 
his  rosy  face,  and  slim  lines  may  have  deceived  her. 
But  Nello  dared  not  play  the  god.  An  angel!  A 
messenger!     Alas,  what  a  message  was  his! 

"Madonna,   I   am  Nello  Nelli,   a  young  man  of 

274 


Venice.     No  angels  do  my  work — I  serve  the  Car- 
dinal of  Mantua." 

"The  Venetians  are  beautiful  persons,"  Emilia 
pursued  her  thoughts:  the  gloss  of  sleep  was  still 
upon  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  was  languid  with 
sleep.  "They  say  that  gold  hair  means  the  sun  at 
birth." 

"It  is  the  Moon  that  shines  upon  me  now,**  re- 
plied Nello,  "and  turns  me  to  holy  desires.  That 
is  the  holy  season,  when  the  moon  rides  lonely  in 
the  sky,  frosty,  pure,  calm  as  the  spaces  she  in- 
habits, and  sheds  a  chaste  benediction  on  all  burn- 
ing foreheads  upon  earth." 

Emilia  shut  her  eyes,  and  sighed.  "The  thought 
is  good.     But  such  an  estate  is  not  for  us." 

"It  is  for  me — it  strengthens  me  and  makes  me 
wise." 

Emilia  sat  up  and  laughed  softly.  Acquaintance 
with  an  angel  seemed  easy  on  these  terms.  She 
leaned  back  on  her  hand,  and  smoothed  her  hair 
with  the  other.  "I  have  had  those  thoughts  my- 
self," she  said,  "but  not  here.  Long  ago — in  my 
home — I  had  them.  That  place  lies  by  Garda,  and 
at  night  the  moon  rises  from  behind  the  mountains 
and  sails  slowly  above  the  lake.  It  is  impossible  to 
be  wicked  on  such  nights ;  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
wickedness.  But  here  in  Milan — the  moon  is  yel- 
low and  hot."  She  sighed,  and  looked  older.  "The 
nights  are  more  wicked  than  the  days." 

Nello  took  two  steps  and  cleared  the  distance 

275 


Tend   Bdoentures 

between  them.  He  now  stood  over  her.  "Wicked- 
ness is  rife  in  the  world,"  he  said,  his  voice  trem- 
bUng,  "but  not  for  you!  Thou  shalt  tread  upon  the 
Hon  and  adder ;  the  young  Hon  and  the  dragon  shalt 
thou  tread  under  thy  feet.  Because  He  has  set 
his  love — " 

She  did  not  look  up;  he  was  too  near.  "I  try 
to  be  good,"  she  said,  "but  in  Milan — " 

"There  is  no  goodness  under  the  sky  if  you  are 
not  good  " ;  his  voice  shook. 

Sleek,  she  crouched  under  the  caress  of  his 
words. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?     You  know  me  not." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  you.  I  have  known  you 
since — ah,  a  long  time!" 

She  was  puzzled.     "You  know  me!     But  how — " 

"By  heart,"  said  Nello,  "in  the  heart,  and 
through  the  heart.  You  are  very  young."  She 
nodded  her  head. 

"Rather  pale" — she  smiled;  but  at  that  moment 
she  was  not  at  her  palest. 

"And  you  partake  of  the  nature  of  a  dove." 
She  looked  quickly  up.  Their  eyes  rested  long 
together. 

Gradually  she  grew  frightened.  He  saw  her 
pupils  dilate;  he  saw  her  call  up  her  reserves. 

"Since  you  have  learned  so  much  of  me — how 
I  know  not — and  voice  me  so  high,  I  must  certainly 
tell  you  the  truth.  You  think  me  very  good;  per- 
haps I  was  so  once.     But  I  have  been  here  two 

276 


Cbe   CoiJC   Cbasc 

years.  Do  you  know  Milan?  There  is  no  time  to 
think  in  Milan.  There  is  no  time  to  pray.  Ah!" 
she  broke  off  suddenly,  with  a  strange  look  of  con- 
cern, as  if  she  had  betrayed  a  secret — "ah,  I  am 
not  good  now  to  be  telling  you  this." 

Nello  was  quick  at  all  points — quick  to  under- 
stand, to  feel,  and  to  resolve.  As  her  poor  tongue 
had  hovered  over  the  secret  sins  of  Milan  he  had 
changed  the  direction  of  all  his  desire.  Compared 
to  this  hotbed  of  a  city — its  staring  suns  and  yellow 
moons — wedlock  with  Simone,  the  love  and  the 
arms  of  that  ruffian  seemed  to  him  a  haven  for  La 
Colombina.  For  what  was  he — poor  hireling — to 
save  her  from  storm  and  wreck?  Alas!  a  swirling 
straw.  But  he  could  lead  her  to  a  rock.  And  what 
was  he,  poor  hireling,  but  a  puff  of  idle  wind?  So 
be  it,  but  he  could  bring  her  to  a  steady  stream. 
Yes,  yes.  Milan  was  a  worse  fate  for  the  white  dove 
than  Simone  at  Cittadella. 

He  said,  then,  deliberately:  "You  are  more 
good,  Madonna,  than  you  can  believe,  since  you 
are  able,  of  your  mere  motion,  to  turn  men's  thoughts 
towards  the  good.  One  such  man  is  known  to  me 
— another  such  am  I.  When  I  came  upon  you 
sleeping,  and  saw  that  only  then  were  you  at  peace, 
I  learned  all  that  I  dreaded,  and  knew  what  I  must 
do.  Other  hopes,  other  resolves  had  I — but  now 
have  only  one.  Many  and  splendid  dreams  were 
mine,  but  I  have  put  them  all  away.  You  are  in 
danger  here — you  have  said  it,  but  I  knew  it  long 

277 


fond   JIdvctttttres 

before.     Well,  I  have  the  means  to  safeguard  you, 
here  with  me.     Listen." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  before  him,  search- 
ing his  face,  waiting  upon  his  words. 

"My  master,  the  Cardinal,  and  I  were  at  Citta- 
della  before  we  turned  our  faces  to  Milan.  Do 
you  know  anything  of  Cittadella?"  She  shook  her 
head.     "Nothing." 

"When  there  we  received  in  charge  a  certain 
token — for  you." 

"A  token — for  me?" 

He  held  out  betwixt  finger  and  thumb  the  little 
ring.  The  lace  ruffles  at  his  wrist  almost  covered 
his  hand. 

"This  is  the  token."  He  waited  for  the  warm 
flood  of  color,  the  telltale  blood,  rapturous  recog- 
nition. He  was  prepared  to  hold  her  as  she  fell. 
No  such  thing.     Emilia  stared  vacantly  at  the  jewel. 

"I  know  nothing  of  this,"  she  said  in  a  dry  voice. 
"Who  gave  it?     Who  sent  it?" 

"I  shall  repeat  you  the  words  which  destined  it 
for  you.  'It  is,'  said  the  giver,  'for  La  Colombina 
— for  remembrance.'" 

Now  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side,  she  gave  back 
a  little,  she  put  her  hands  behind  her.  "Ah,"  she 
said,  "now  I  know.     What  shall  I  do?" 

"To  La  Colombina,"  repeated  Nello,  looking  fix- 
edly at  the  gray  of  her  cheek — "for  remembrance — 
from  him  who  only  knows  that  name  ";  and  Emilia 
began  to  wring  her  little  hands, 

278 


CDc   Core   Cbase 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  said,  "he  has  never  forgotten — 
he  cotdd  never  forget!  He  requires  so  much — he 
will  kill  me!"  She  strained  her  head  back — he 
thought  now  that  she  would  fall,  and  was  shocked 
at  what  he  had  done.  His  wits  had  betrayed 
him,  and  again  his  passion  veered  Hke  a  weather- 
cock. 

"Let  it  never  be  given,"  he  said,  "let  the  fault 
be  mine — let  the  vengeance  fall  on  me."  He  looked 
round  for  a  bog  or  bottomless  morass:  the  garden 
did  not  supply  one ;  but  then  Emilia  turned  about. 

"Shall  I  be  serpent  instead  of  dove — and  you 
make  me  so?  Give  me  the  ring.  It  is  mine,  and 
I  must  wear  it." 

She  held  out  her  left  hand,  the  third  finger  sepa- 
rate and  stiff.  "Put  the  ring  on,  if  you  please." 
But  as  Xello  obeyed  her,  her  large  tears  collected, 
brimmed  over,  and  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  This 
silent  witness  of  self-pity  moved  Nello  oddly,  not 
to  pity  her  in  his  turn,  but  to  harden  him  against 
so  dangerous  a  generosity,  to  hector  her  rather. 
The  prig  in  man  is,  after  all,  the  quickliest  moved. 
There  she  stood,  melting  before  him;  and  he,  wise 
fool,  could  do  no  better  than  work  ardently  for  the 
man  whom,  of  all  men,  he  loathed. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  say  that  you  are  wise  or 
unwise;  but  I  may  praise  your  nobility,  I  hope. 
I  know  not  what  right  Messer  Simone  had  to  claim 
your  loyalty — " 

Here  she  looked  ver}'  wistful  as  she  considered 

279 


fond  Jia^cntures 

her  case,  and  his  putting  of  it,  and  Nello  felt  proud 
of  himself.  He  had  given  great  measure  to  his 
enemy — that  butcher  Simone — and  he  had  made 
this  lovely  creature  think.  To  make  a  maid  of 
honor  think  in  Milan  appeared  to  him  to  be  some- 
thing. But  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  setback 
which  she  was  to  give  him.  She  had  the  knack, 
among  others,  of  extremely  simple  utterance,  and 
by  the  very  directness  of  her  attack  could  disarm 
you. 

"It  is  easy  to  answer  you.  He  was  my  lover 
long  ago.     I  was  twelve  years  old." 

He  was  staggered.  "Twelve,  Madonna!  Twelve 
years  old!"     She  affirmed  with  the  eyes. 

"O  Heaven!  And  he — ?"  She  shrugged — she 
looked  very  desolate. 

"He  was  older,  of  course,  and  very  big.  My 
head  was  here."  She  touched  her  bosom  with  her 
finger,  and  let  her  hand  drop  again,  a  dead  weight. 
The  stormy  picture  which  Nello  instantly  made 
shocked  him  to  the  soul.  He  shivered — round 
backed  his  desire  to  full,  warm  south.  Emilia, 
who  had  been  watching  him  without  his  knowledge, 
continued  her  dreary  confession. 
XI.  Emilia's  Way 

She  said,  with  eagerness  strangely  in  leash,  "You 
will  not  misjudge  me,  I  hope.  I  was  very  young — 
but  a  promise  is  a  sacred  thing.  I  loved  him — or 
thought  that  I  did.  But  do  not  misjudge  Simone 
either.     No,  no!"     She  put  her  finger  up  to  check 

280 


tht  £ot>^   eftase 

Nello's  budding  eloquence.  "It  is  easy  to  mis- 
judge Simone,  but  I  cannot  allow  it.  He  is  good." 
Nello  was  crimson. 

"He  is  not  good,  by  the  King  of  kings!  He  is 
vile  and  horrible — cruel  as  death.  I  have  seen 
l^im — ah!  I  cannot  say  what  I  have  seen.  He 
will  kill  you." 

"He  will  kill  me,"  said  Emilia,  "if  I  am  not 
faithful." 

Nello  went  mad.  He  took  the  girl's  two  hands — 
She  would  not  look  at  him,  but  made  no  resistance. 
He  held  them,  and  drew  her  nearer. 

"Madonna,"  he  said,  "I  am  nothing  to  you;  but 
to  me  you  are  everything  which  a  woman  should 

be "     She    framed   "Oh   no!"   with   her   shocked 

lips,  but  neither  looked  nor  drew  away.  "Every- 
thing," he  repeated,  "which  a  woman  should  be. 
You  are  holy,  you  are  sublime,  you  are  the  soul 
of  honor.  As  a  mercy  to  me,  wear  not  this  ring  of 
Simone's  until  such  time  as  he  shall  prove  his  right 
to  ask  it  by  better  title  than  the  terrors  of  a  child. 
Will  you  do  this?  You  will?  Ah,  but  you  will!" 
He  drew  the  ring  off  her  finger  and  put  it  in  his  bos- 
om. He  kissed  the  freed  hand,  then  the  other. 
He  was  trembling,  love  was  his  master;  he  knew 
not  what  he  did — 

"Madonna  Nina,"   cried   a  boyish   voice   behind 

the  girl. 

"Death  and  the  Devil!"  said  Nello. 
They   were   broken   in   upon   by   an   eager-faced 
^9  281 


fond  Jiaoentures 

page,  who,  pelting  down  the  garden,  had  pulled 
up  short  when  he  was  upon  his  quarry. 

"Forgive  me.  Madonna  Nina;  forgive  me,  Sig- 
nore  ?  Madonna,  you  are  summoned,  the  Duchess 
has  called  for  you  twice."  He  had  barely  time  to 
bow  his  little  person  away  before  Emilia  had  com- 
posed her  own.  A  very  altered,  wise,  and  circum- 
spect young  lady  turned  to  face  her  flushed  adorer. 

"Signor  Nello,"  she  said  sedately,  "I  have  been 
talking  foolishly,  but  I  was  startled  for  the  moment. 
I  hope  that  you  will  understand  that.  You  have 
been  most  kind  to  me,  but  I  must  not  trouble  you 
any  more.  I  think  that  you  have  my  ring.  Will 
you  give  it  to  me?" 

"I  will  give  it  to  you,  Madonna,"  said  Nello,  "on 
condition  that  you  do  not  wear  it.  I  have  a  reason 
for  asking  what  you  may  think  an  extraordinary 
request." 

"What  is  your  reason,  sir?" 

"I  will  tell  you  when  we  have  more  leisure.  It 
will  approve  itself  to  your  judgment  and  clemency 
at  once.     It  is  highly  reasonable." 

They  were  ascending  a  broad  flight  of  steps;  at 
the  top  they  paused.  "We  should  not  go  any 
further  together,"  said  she. 

He  protested,  but  could  not  move  her.  He 
plunged  into  nonsense,  and  made  her  smile,  but 
she  did  not  advance.  "We  are  children  with  a 
bogey  between  us,"  says  he,  "which  we  dare  not 
so  much  as  name.     Let  us  be  bolder — come.     Tell 

282 


CDC   Cooc    Cbase 

me  what  bogey  prevents  my  walking  with  you,  and 
I  will  tell  you  who  it  is  that  drives  me  to  insist." 
She  started  and  turned  pale.  "Look,  look!"  she 
said.  He  followed  her  direction,  and  there  was  a 
bogey  indeed.  Cardinal  Gonzaga  stood  smiHng, 
vast  and  benevolent,  peering  upon  them  out  of  nar- 
rowed eyes. 

Nello,  sober  in  a  moment,  dropped  upon  his 
knee;  Emiha  took  to  both  of  hers.  The  Cardinal 
advanced. 

"Charming  httle  lady,"  he  said,  "happily  met! 
If  my  yotmg  friend  lingers  in  his  farewells  it  is  no 
wonder.  I  should  have  been  tempted  myself.  Rise, 
rise,  and  come  to  me."  Faltering  she  came  and 
kissed  his  ring.  He  patted  her  cheek  and  put  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder,  which  drooped  to  receive  it. 

"I  sent  Master  Xello  out  to  you  upon  a  httle 
errand,  which  I  have  no  doubt  is  performed.  Is 
it  so.  Madonna  Emiha?" 

She  met  his  bhnking  gaze  with  a  faint  color,  a 
curtsey,  a  bent  head.  He  almost  embraced  her 
with  his  arm.  "Strange,  indeed,"  he  said,  "that 
so  yoimg  and  gentle  a  lady  should  be  a  counter  in 
the  rough  games  of  states— yet  so  it  is.  There  is 
a  price  upon  that  pretty  head— a  great  price.  Do 
you  know  what  it  is'  It  is  Mantua,  it  is  Milan,  it 
is  the  glor>-  of  Venice.  Are  you  prepared  for  this 
fine  marketing?"  She  murmured  some  inaudible 
words,  while  Xello  bit  his  Hps. 

"Our  friend  out  yonder,"  said  the  Cardinal,  and 

2  8.:; 


Tona   Jfdpcntures 

waved  his  hand  greatly  to  the  east,  "is  vehement 
in  many  things,  as  swift  as  a  dr^^  wind.  By  the 
splendor  of  God,  but  he  is!  I  have  not  emulated 
him  there,  my  child;  I  have  not  been  so  eager  to 
do  his  errand  as  he  is  showing  himself  in  the  doing 
of  mine.  You  shall  forgive  a  vexed  statesman, 
who  is,  nevertheless,  sincerely  your  friend.  But 
now  listen  to  this  of  our  keen  Simone.  He  has  lost 
no  time.  He  has  surprised  the  Venetians  in  a 
wood  near  Padua;  cut  van  from  rear.  The  former 
he  killed  to  a  man,  and  the  latter  pursued  with  such 
incredible  swiftness  that  he  was  upon  them — his 
butchery  done — before  they  could  reach  the  gates. 
He  did  some  steel  work  under  the  very  walls,  and 
mocked  them  rarely — with  his  palio  for  horsemen, 
his  foot-race  for  camp-women,  and  what  not — and 
drew  off  his  men  in  good  order,  with  half  a  dozen 
gonfalons  and  a  lion  of  Saint  Mark  for  booty.  They 
tell  me  that  he  has  burnt  up  the  maize  fields  for 
three  leagues  about  Abano,  and  turned  the  contado 
into  a  smoking  desert.  I  say  nothing  of  prisoners, 
since  he  says  nothing ;  but  I  have  little  doubt  of  how 
he  has  serv^ed  them.  And  now  the  Republic  has 
called  in  Piccinnino  against  him,  and  we  shall  have 
news  before  long.  A  fighter — ha!  what  a  lover  for 
a  pretty  lady — ha!" 

The  Cardinal  beamed  about  him,  shining  and 
exalted.  Nello  sickened,  but  not  so  much  at  Simone 
as  at  this  gross  priest.  He  now  believed  the  worst 
of  the  Cardinal,  that  his  eyes  had  been  caught,  and 

284 


Cbe  tooe  Cba$e 

that  he  had  turned  his  craft  towards  the  entrap- 
ping of  EmiHa  for  his  own  house.  Watching  her 
by  stealth,  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  troubled,  and 
that  her  lips  framed  unsounded  words.  She  prayed ; 
she  was  in  deadly  fear. 

The  Cardinal  turned  about  to  continue  his  walk, 
so  Emilia  fell  to  Nello  without  further  demur. 
Each  felt  the  nearness  of  the  other;  there  was  an 
urgency  to  speak,  yet  neither  spoke.  That  which 
the  Cardinal  stood  for,  that  which  underlay  every 
word  he  had  said,  was  dreadfully  present  to  Nello; 
but  his  tongue  was  tied.  As  for  the  Httle  lady,  he 
was  to  learn  before  long  that  she  by  no  means  told 
all  that  she  thought.  So  it  was  that  they  returned, 
charged,  but  silently,  together. 

Nello  counted  the  minutes  which  remained  to 
him.  They  narrowed  fearfully.  He  dared  delay 
no  longer;  speak  he  must. 

"Oh,  I  pity  you!  oh,  I  pity  you!" 
She  shook  her  head,  bit  her  lip,  but  said  nothing. 
He  leaned  to  her  again.     "Courage,  courage!  there 
must  be  a  way.     Ah,  let  me  live  to  find  it!" 

She  hurried  on  blindly.  At  the  foot  of  the  last 
flight  of  steps  she  stopped,  and  spoke  in  a  quick 
whisper.  "To-night— after  vespers— remain.  I  shall 
come  back.  I  need  you."  She  went  from  him 
swiftly.     Nello  walked  with  God. 

True  to  her  word,  she  did  come  back  into  the 
chapel  glooms,  where  Nello  waited  for  her  with  his 
beating  heart,  and  all  his  philosophy  in  rags.   What 

285 


Tond   Hdoentures 

she  had  to  do  with  him  was  got  by  heart,  and  done 
swiftly.  She  was  muffled  in  a  cloak,  came  directly 
to  him,  and  began  to  speak  in  a  low  and  measured  J 
voice.  The  church  was  empty  but  for  those  two, 
and  a  white  nun  at  a  distant  altar  adoring  the 
sacrament. 

"Long  ago,"  thus  she  said,  "when  I  was  a  child, 
and  plighted  to  a  lover,  I  tried  to  be  most  faithful 
to  Simone.  Every  night  after  vespers,  after  he  had 
left  us,  I  lighted  a  candle  before  the  Madonna  del 
Lago.  I  promised  him  that  I  would,  and  so  I  did. 
Then,  afterwards,  for  some  reason,  I  omitted  it.  It 
was  long  ago.  I  came  to  Milan;  there  w^ere  many 
things  to  do,  much  to  take  care  of.  I  forgot  it.  I 
see  now  that  I  did  wickedly;  you  have  taught  me 
that.  I  am  going  to  begin  again.  I  will  hght  my 
candle  and  pray  that  I  may  be  kept  for  Simone. 
I  wish  you  to  pray  with  me.  You  must  do  it.  I 
ask  it  of  vou.  You  know  my  secret;  you  have 
guessed  my — my — danger.  I  trust  in  you — in  no 
one  else — come!" 

Nello  was  bewitched  by  the  strange,  secret  girl, 
who  spoke  as  out  of  a  lesson-book,  but  had  a  thrill 
of  tears  within  her  voice.  She  had  his  hand  in  her 
own,  which  was  hot  and  dry;  she  led  him  away  to 
a  hidden  altar,  where  a  dim  picture  glowed,  half 
revealed  by  a  lamp  and  some  dying  lights.  She  lit 
her  taper  by  another,  offered  it,  spiked  it,  and 
knelt — Nello  by  her.  Her  head  was  bowed — it  may 
be  questioned  whether  she  prayed,   or  for  what. 

286 


tm   Copc   CDase 

Nello  had  no  words,  but  his  agitation  was  piercing. 
j  He  longed  for  this  girl's  soul  as  he  had  never  longed 
for  anything;  he  felt  that  she  lifted  him  up,  gave 
him  wings  which  he  had  never  dreamed  to  have. 
The  piety,  the  resignation  which  he  saw  in  this  act 
of  hers,  made  him  faint  with  rapture;  her  breath, 
so  near,  all  about  him,  the  soft  fretting  of  her  robe 
where  it  touched  him,  the  mystery,  the  silence,  his 
beating  heart,  moved  him  so  much  that  he  could 
not  keep  still.  In  fact,  he  trembled,  as  they  say, 
like  a  leaf.  But  whatever  fire  had  nerved  her — 
whether  love  of  Simone  or  love  of  God — the  same 
burned  steadily  to  the  end.  She  was  perfectly  still, 
perfectly  calm,  her  own  mistress — and  his.  The 
devotion  done,  she  rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Nello.  He  could  just  see  the  outline  of  her  pale 
face,  her  serious  eyes,  and  moving  lips. 

"You  have  made  me  better  than  I  ever  hoped 
to  be.  Your  words,  your  countenance,  your  pray- 
ers have  given  me  great  courage.  Watch  over 
me,  help  me  all  you  can.  I  mean  to  do  well — but 
I  go  in  peril.     Pray  for  me — good-night." 

He  kissed  a  little  hand,  crying  to  himself  that 
it  was  as  cold  as  a  stone.  That  is  as  it  may  be. 
Quickly  she  glided  out  and  left  him. 

He  remained  motionless  for  a  long  while.  "She 
has  forgotten  to  take  her  ring.  I  am  done  for — 
Love  is  my  master — she  shall  never  have  it.  She 
is  adorable;  there  is  no  woman  left  in  the  world. 
All  are  in  her;  she  is  the  first  and  the  last.     Now 

287 


Tend   Jiaocntures 

may  the  Gods  who  gave  me  love  teach  me  how  to 
win  her.  I  have  never  loved  before."  Dust  lay 
on  the  Arabic  grammar  that  night;  and  had  Per- 
netta  any  more  parrots  for  strangulation,  she  would 
have  strangled  them  unpraised. 
XII.  Devotions  of  a  Vicar 

It  was  not  without  some  misgivings  that  our 
Nello,  when  his  fever  had  had  time  to  cool,  saw 
himself  embarked  upon  the  waters  of  love  in  a 
skiff  none  too  stout  in  the  timbers;  nor  did  it  add 
to  his  contentment  that  his  shallop,  such  as  it  was, 
was  not  his  own.  He  loved  Emilia  Fiordispina; 
but  what  of  her?  She,  if  he  must  believe  her, 
loved  duty;  and  Simone  stood  for  duty.  The  more 
she  clung  to  Nello,  therefore,  the  better  seemed 
Simone's  case;  the  more  Nello  followed  her,  the 
less  his  chance  of  outwitting  this  distant  menace, 
only  present  in  himself.  The  false  position  hurt  his 
sense  of  dignity,  and  yet  he  could  not  escape  it. 
The  truth  may  well  be,  also,  that  he  sighed  more 
than  once  as  he"  confessed  the  reproaches  of  his 
books.  Dust  upon  the  fair  edges  of  his  Virgil — 
the  gift  of  Vittorino  da  Feltre;  dust,  alas,  upon  the 
Arabic  grammar;  and  dim  with  dust  looked  his 
learned  future.  He  shook  his  head.  "What  a 
scholiast  is  lost  here!  What  a  chair  of  Rhetoric 
is  gaping  for  me  in  Mantua — gaping  in  vain."  But 
the  thought  of  that  head  so  sweetly  bent  over  a 
task — the  thought  of  dire  Simone,  black-avised, 
bloody  and  sudden,  spurred  him  to  the  fray.     He 

288 


CAc   Cove   €Dd$e 

pushed  aside  his  books,  huddled  his  notes  together. 
The  day  was  fair;  the  golden  trees  outside,  the  lazy 
air,  the  humming  of  the  bees  called  him.  In  the 
garden  he  might  find  Emilia,  or  from  some  gallery 
window  might  see  her  at  play  with  her  mates.  The 
spring  called  him,  and  Emilia's  urgent  cry  of  the 
heart,  "I  need  you,  Nello,  I  need  you.  I  am  for- 
getting Simone.  Come!"  And  he  went.  Strange 
destiny  for  poet  and  lover — to  be  vicar  to  one  who 
was  butcher  and  tyrant.  "I  am  humiliated  to  the 
earth.  My  soul  is  glued  to  the  pavement.  I  am 
wretched,  I  despise  myself — she  needs  me:  I  go." 
He  always  went. 

Again,  there  was  another  thing.  As  we  know, 
he  was  nothing  if  not  critical;  not  even  the  roman- 
tic uplifting  of  his  heart  could  numb  this  faculty 
of  his  head.  But  observe  the  curious  result — that 
his  heart  was  now  able  to  turn  his  head  to  its  ser- 
vice. He  could  not  avoid  criticising  his  Colom- 
bina ;  he  could  not  but  see  that  she  was  dangerously 
attractive,  nor  withhold  from  his  private  mind  the 
opinion  that  she  was  not  insensible  to  the  power 
she  had;  but  he  was  able,  by  some  intricate  jug- 
gling of  his  parts,  to  assure  himself  that  he  adored 
her  more  than  ever.  Her  "kindness"  was  charity, 
her  secretiveness  was  "mystery,"  her  candor  (for 
she  w^as  both  secret  and  open,  as  she  chose)  was 
innocence. 

Her  lovers,  declared  and  undeclared,  were  in- 
numerable.    There  was  not  a  maid  at  Court  who 

289 


had  half  so  many.  Behind  the  Duchess's  chair — 
who  whispered  in  her  ear  as  he  passed?  to  whom 
did  she  Usten  with  vague  and  wandering  eyes?  for 
whom  did  those  sober  lips  part  and  gleam?  for 
what,  at  what,  did  that  shy  smile  hover  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  flicker  and  fade  out?  Alas,  it  was  not 
for  one  only!  Now  it  was  the  magnificent,  black- 
and-white  young  lord,  heir  of  Milan,  Galeazzo- 
Maria;  now  it  was  Don  Tristano;  now  Don  Hermes 
— Sforzas  all  three,  who  fought  with  knives  for  her; 
now  it  was  Messer  Filelfo,  most  unphilosophic  phi- 
losopher, greasy  with  sin  and  over-eating;  now  it 
was  a  Pallavicini;  now  a  Bentivoglio.  There  were 
rumors  about  her;  it  was  she  who  made  Don  Ga- 
leazzo  cold  upon  the  Mantuan  marriage ;  it  was  she — 
but  enough  of  that!  La  Nina  and  the  Cardinal — 
Heavens,  what  a  lover's  tale!  And  then  the  evi- 
dence of  the  eyes  —  what  of  that?  Billets  were 
passed  up  below  the  table  where  the  maids  sat  dining ; 
Nello  could  see  them  go.  From  lap  to  lap  they 
went — from  Gismonda  to  Isotta,  from  her  to  Bianca, 
to  Susanna,  to  Violante-Maria — but  on  La  Nina's 
lap  they  rested — that  was  always  the  ark  of  their 
pilgrimage;  and  Nello,  if  he  happened  to  be  pres- 
ent, watched  that  she  should  open  and  declare  the 
contents  by  her  face.  But  she  never  opened,  and 
he  swore  to  himself  that  she  w^as  wise;  and  his 
heart  instructed  his  head  to  say  that  it  was  for  her 
wisdom  he  loved  her.  That  obsequious  head  of  a 
sophist  that  he  had! 

290 


Cbe   Cooe   Cbase 

Sometimes  he  surprised  her  at  intimate  quarters 
with  some  splendid  youth — in  the  gardens — on  the 
terraces — in  the  great,  coffered  chambers.  She 
would  be  biting  the  stalk  of  a  flower,  he  leaning 
over  her,  pouring  out  a  fiery  stream  of  rhetoric. 
She  would  say  Httle,  she  would  scarcely  smile;  she 
looked  down  always — listened,  judged,  considered. 
So  the  game  went  on.  So  wise  a  head  on  so  young 
and  tender  a  body!  So  wary  a  heart  to  throb  with 
blood  so  new!  "Is  she  a  miracle?  Do  I  love  a 
witch?  A  Siren?  Calypso,  Queen  of  Faery?  Mor- 
gan le  Fay  herself?"  he  asked,  but  could  not  answer 
himself.  Wonder  of  wonders — he  never  reproached 
her;  he  was  entirely  her  slave — her  right  hand,  her 
conscience,  she  used  to  say,  when  she  made  him 
help  her,  as  she  did  every  day.  On  the  contrary, 
he  accepted  everything  that  she  did,  and  was  per- 
fectly loyal  to  the  fiction  which  held  him  to  her 
side.  His  books  had  no  chance  with  his  infatua- 
tion. He  could  not  bear  to  see  them  lest,  regretting 
their  dusty  sides,  he  should  seem  untrue  to  Emilia. 

Yet,  anomalous  as  they  were,  he  had  to  own 
that  the  privileges  which  she  gave  him  were  signal. 
So  far  as  he  could  tell  no  other  lover  of  hers  was 
so  highly  favored  as  he,  or  Simone  in  him.  Not  a 
day  passed  but  he  met  her,  and  more  than  once; 
not  a  day  but  she  confided  some  secret  to  him  or 
accorded  him  some  begged  gratuity.  They  swam, 
he  told  himself,  the  strong  flood  of  Milan  together, 
he  breasting  it  gallantly  in  her  quarrel,  she,  on  her 

291 


Tona   Jldpenturcs 

side,  taking  her  line  from  him.  She  grew  to  be 
dangerously  frank,  did  not  always  disgiiise  what 
he  had  darkly  feared,  and  with  her  confidences 
stabbed  and  anointed  him  in  one  breath. 

This,  however,  was  after  he  had  had  ocular  testi- 
mony of  what  she  chose  to  confide  more  than  once. 
He  had  seen  Don  Galeazzo  with  her  in  the  lemon- 
garden;  he  had  seen  Don  Tristano  in  the  orchard — 
and  then  she  told  him  about  it.     "Oh,  Nello,  last 

night  Don  Galeazzo  ,"  or  "Dearest  friend,  in 

the  orchard  Don  Tristano  took  me  by  both  my 
hands.  Alas,  I  did  wickedly  by  my  poor  Simone!" 
Again  it  was,  with  breathlessness  and  with  tears, 
"Nello,  Nello,  I  must  speak  with  you  for  a  mo- 
ment— indeed  it  is  urgent,  my  Nello.  This  after- 
noon the  horrible  Messer  Filelfo  followed  me  into 
the  rose-garden,  and  made  proposals — "  The  pro- 
posals could  only  be  hinted — nor  was  more  needed. 
She  fairly  broke  down  over  that  business.  Nello 
pulled  the  philosopher's  nose,  to  the  great  scandal 
of  his  young  wife — a  staring  Greek  girl.  "Heyday, 
do  you  batter  a  learned  man  in  his  own  house?" 
cried  she.  "Madam,"  says  Nello,  "you  may  well 
ask.  Permit  me  to  explain."  But  as  he  very 
well  knew,  that  was  exactly  what  he  would  not  be 
allowed  to  do.  Filelfo,  with  a  fearful  grin,  pro- 
tested that  the  assault  was  a  joke  between  him  and 
his  "dear  young  friend,"  and  there  were  no  more 
complaints  of  him  from  Emilia.  These  things  were 
of  frequent  occurrence,  and  Nello,  between  his  Car- 

292 


dinal  and  his  mistress,  was  stretched  as  far  as  his 
nerv^es  would  go.  The  odd  part  about  his  love- 
afi'air  is  that  the  more  she  confided  him  of  her  es- 
capades the  more  madly  he  loved  her.  It  would 
seem  that  all  that  could  be  necessan^  to  his  perfect 
happiness  w^ould  be  that  some  fine  gentleman  of 
Milan  should  niin  her  in  earnest.  But  she  was  not 
of  the  sort  to  be  ruined. 

By  these  means  and  others,  by  the  possession  of 
a  common  secret,  by  common  understanding,  and 
by  strong  predilections,  Nello  and  his  Emilia  w^ere 
bound  up  together.  It  could  not  be  long,  you 
would  have  said,  before  some  surging  of  one  or  the 
other  of  them  in  the  bonds  should  turn  them  breast 
to  breast.  That  was  the  expectation  of  their  ac- 
quaintance in  Milan — that  such  warm  lips  as  theirs, 
throbbing  in  concert  at  ever}"  pulse  of  the  hour, 
could  not  long  be  held  apart.  After  their  first 
meeting  in  the  chapel  at  dusk  Nello  had  taken 
leave  to  wait  there  for  her  every  night.  Together 
they  went  through  the  mystical  ceremony  of  the 
taper,  together  bowed  their  heads,  and  prayed,  or 
seemed  to  pray,  in  Simone's  interest.  If  ever  the 
Madonna  winked  (as  the  Protestants  fable)  she 
might  be  excused  for  it  here.  The  taper  was  kindled 
for  Simone,  but  it  kindled  a  more  secret  flame.  Not 
only  was  Nello  there  every  night;  every  night 
Emilia  counted  on  his  being  there.  The  first  turn 
of  her  quick  eyes  was  to  that  pillar  against  which 
he  always  leaned;  she  almost  ran  to  meet  him;  her 

293 


f f li    Jilt eitircs 


■wirr  not.  sbe  n^n^i&d  rr  bis  5iir  £^  sirr  s^-iis.     The 
"wtscil!  hiDV  ibej  vi_  _  rD^-iher    there  V25  al- 

-WHV5   sa2De:2ii!E   "Eo   sej — srrD^   ruse   vhererr   ibe 
I>nrhpsF  2iD3if.  nrc  nnsE  ber  srcne  vise  irr^thomi^ 


zr^irri^C't  i^nt  Car 


Tarp  csTDe  ciose  "^  ins ;  ne  szrxoei  ms  iieai  "luc.":  n 
sa-ZJiLLf.  be   iDser      Site   et'pv  mire   e^mes^V    irDn- 

:  esc^iei  '-^ —     £  -wrir-i   of 
GET  a  *"  G-earest      aiic  "Ihei 

=  "me   3pe:_     — ^g  becEirDf   seriDus   £:t   onct. 

NeHi.   ve   iirr^  poor   SiraaaE  §    canfje.' 
Tush  ne  jn  rr  iar  ber.  bersmse  be  "iras  "Lbe  "Lalier.  and 
"       '    :    tbey  kiieh  before  ibe  x^r  iiire; 

hsnls  222.  net  meet  hhjf-VL     zi^ron^ 


r"ij[_  zt^'^'i — 'rczii-e.  2n2  sc  siav  TrEm.  me  n*e  "was 
dDoe.  Nelii  mrriirbr  "Lb at  be  baf  vasted  a  day. 
Tbe^  r2??  ^rz       '  S-ooc-tri^rt.  dear  Ne!i2.''     "Good- 

-vac  "r  .  cm  be  at  tbe  tnasqnerabe  tmE  eren- 
inr^^  or  'Tat  Csrdznal  vil  be  at  tbe  I>iidiesE's 
cir^ie      I  ^-^.^-^  see  tirr  Kznerta  aEazr" — and  so  it 


r  -1^  ■^• 


'-  —  z  tr  crooc  j»  corrtrrv-ec 

-:'    —    '  tier  pam  _^^  -  -irse-   -  ~  ^  ^,  tbe  week. 

r            zDes     as    ytn   kni'v     -    :  rzr.    vas   il- 

cbi'setL     He  sav  bsr  vrtb  tbis  r:»De  ct  that — sav 

isr  sottjetimes   Vrigr.    sb^   vas    .  r     ictir.^'   ^ 

fcrv'sr.  or  rwiddrng  ber  frr-ger^.  ,  rrrig. 

*94 


the   Cooc   Cbase 

while  some  curled  and  anointed  golden  yotith  whis- 
pered in  her  ear.  At  such  times  it  is  to  his  credit 
to  say  that  he  tore  himself  from  the  place,  and  that, 
though  he  suffered  the  torments  of  the  damned, 
she  never  knew  it.  He  might  have  guessed  from 
such  unwholesome  sights  that  all  was  not  well. 
There  were  whole  sections  of  the  days  and  nights 
when  he  could  not  see  her.  But,  God  help  the 
boy,  he  was  a  loyal  sotil,  and  thought  her  a  min- 
ister of  Heaven. 

On  her  account — mysterious,  slow-smiling  little 
creature — there  was  no  telling.  What  lay  behind 
those  locked  lips,  which  seemed  forever  on  the 
point  of  a  confidence  and  forever  refusing  it  at  the 
last,  there  was  nobody  in  Milan  could  say.  There 
were  at  least  a  dozen  who  believed  that  they  could, 
but  Xello  was  not  one  of  them.  He  was  perfectly 
honest  with  himself;  he  had  no  notion  whether  she 
loved  him  or  not.  He  knew  that  she  trusted  him, 
and  that  in  spite  of  his  ver\'  ob\~ious  passion.  Some- 
times he  beUeved,  and  sometimes  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  that  she  was  using  him  only  ais 
Simone's  proxy — detestable,  inglorious  office!  What 
he  did  not  know — one  of  many  things — was  that 
his  name  had  got  into  her  letters  to  old  Father 
Pandolfo,  her  confessor  of  old  when  she  was  a  slip 
of  a  girl  by  Garda.  That  white-haired,  peaceful 
man  had  more  of  the  truth  from  her  than  anybody. 

Reverend  my  father,  last  night  the  Cardinal  of  Mantxia 
paid  me  great  attention  at  the  Duchess's  assembly.     Her 

^95 


Tona   Bdocnttircs 

Grace  asked  me  upon  going  to  bed  what  it  meant.  I  could 
not  tell  her.  He  said  that  I  had  dove's  eyes,  and  that 
La  Colombina  was  my  rightful  name.  Did  you  ever  hear 
me  called  by  that  ?  .  .  .  Messer  Nello  Nelli  was  not  present. 
He  is  the  most  clever  of  all  the  young  gentlemen  in  Milan, 
and  excessively  learned.  I  read  Seneca  with  him  some- 
times, and  sometimes  the  Songs  of  Catullus.  He  calls  me 
Lesbia,  and  has  tamed  a  sparrow  for  me,  but  we  call  the 
bird  Simone.  Do  you  remember  Messer  Simone  della 
Prova,  who  was  squire  to  my  father  long  ago?  He  is 
winning  great  battles  in  the  Veneto  for  our  party.  His 
name  is  on  all  lips — that  is  why  w^e  have  given  it  to  our 
sparrow.  Messer  Nello  Nelli  thinks  him  very  strong,  but 
the  Cardinal  of  Mantua  yesterday  advised  me  to  have 
nothing  to  say  to  him  shovdd  I  ever  meet  him  again — which 
is  improbable. 

It  was  true  about  the  sparrow — that  she  had 
named  it.  "Passer,  deliciae  meae  puellae,"  Nello 
had  said;  and  she,  soberly,  "Ah,  in  that  case  we 
will  call  him  Simone."  Nello,  ruefully,  had  to  see 
this  Simone  sip  his  full  of  sugar  from  the  most 
tormenting,  beautiful,  changeable  mouth  in  the 
world. 

Father    Pandolfo,    rather    perturbed,    wrote    in 

reply : 

Have  a  care,  my  daughter.  Your  Messer  Nello  is  evi- 
dently a  talented  youth,  and  has  caught  the  knack  of  ap- 
pearing good.  Before  you  bestow  upon  him  your  treasure, 
however,  I  advise  you  to  inquire  of  his  bankers. 

Emilia  answered  at  once: 

We  have  lost  each  other,  dearest  father  in  Jesus  Christ. 
What  is  this  of  treasure  and  a  bank?  Last  evening  the 
magnificent  Don  Galeazzo,  etc.,  etc. 

296 


Cbe   Cooc    Chase 

"It's  a  bad  case,"  quoth  Father  Pandolfo  to  the 
cat  on  his  knee. 

It  was  a  worse  case  than  the  good  man  supposed. 
The  Cardinal  had  sent  a  messenger  to  Mantua  with 
orders  to  put  in  complete  furniture  the  Palazza 
Senzanoja  which  had  not  been  occupied  since  the 
demise  of  Donna  Vittoria  Pico,  of  the  princely  house 
of  Mirandola.  La  Pernetta  heard  of  it,  among 
others;  in  fact  all  Mantua  was  interested. 
XIII.  The  Riven  Heart 

It  may  seem  incredible,  and  yet  is  perfectly  true, 
that  Nello,  sharp-eyed  lover  as  he  was,  had  no 
notion  of  that  affair  of  Senzanoja;  and  while  he 
suspected  every  gallant  in  Milan  of  meditating  the 
murder  of  his  bliss,  did  not  include  in  the  host  the 
one  man  of  them  all  who  meant  it  most.  One  rea- 
son is  that  he  could  not,  poor  youth,  look  every 
way  at  once,  and  another  that  his  Nina's  confidences 
were  not  so  generous  as  he  believed  them.  Nothing 
had  been  said  of  the  Cardinal's  deaHngs  with  her. 
And  yet  those  dealings  had  never  ceased  since  the 
day  when  he  held  her  chin  at  the  audience  of  his 
entry.  She  had  been  forced  upon  his  attention 
then  by  Simone  della  Prova's  charge;  she  had  re- 
mained in  it  by  her  own  powers.  It  was  certain 
that  she  could  attract  men  without  seeming  so  to 
do:  the  Duchess  knew  it,  Nello  knew  it,  everybody 
knew  it.  The  Cardinal,  it  has  been  said,  was  not 
at  all  scandalous  in  his  life  and  conversation;  far 
from  that,  he  had  been  very  little  worse  than  Saint 

297 


Paul's  supposed  bishop.  He  had  been  as  much  the 
husband  of  Donna  Vittoria  Pico  as  the  law  allowed 
him;  and  when  she  died  he  had  mourned  her  in 
deed  as  well  as  at  heart.  However,  he  was  forty 
years  old  and  a  fine  man,  and  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  mourn  her  forever. 

He  had  not,  perhaps,  been  able  to  see  so  much 
of  Emilia  as  his  secretary  had;  but  he  had  been 
able,  either  from  absence  of  tact  or  a  disregard  of 
it,  to  go  nearly  as  far.  And  this  without  Nello's 
knowledge,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  had  not 
chosen  that  Nello  should  know.  Tact  is  one  thing, 
discretion  another.  He  was  very  well  aware  that 
he  had  a  rival  in  that  bright-faced  young  man;  he 
did  not  fear  him,  but  saw  no  occasion  to  provoke 
him.  "All's  fair  in  the  game  we  play  here,"  he 
would  have  said.  "If  I  mean  to  give  Delia  Prova 
the  go-by,  my  Master  Nello  has  the  same  intentions 
with  regard  to  the  pair  of  us.  He  has  his  talents 
and  ingenuity,  his  beauty,  his  wit,  his  singing-voice 
and  his  blessed,  blessed  youth  on  his  side.  Let 
him  thrive,  in  God's  name.  I  wish  him  every  good 
but  one." 

It  was  discretion  in  the  Cardinal,  not  forgetful- 
ness,  which  gave  over  the  ring  and  the  message  to 
Nello;  it  was  discretion  which  enlarged  upon  Si- 
mone's  fury  of  fighting  in  the  hearing  of  the  lady. 
These  were  statesman's  methods,  and  show  that 
he  had  something  on  his  side. 

He  certainly  had :   he  was  a  prince.     It  is  not 

298 


every  maid  of  honor  that  can  hold  a  Cardinal  cap- 
tive to  her  petticoat.  Emilia  was  made  aware  of 
that  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  The  Sforza  princesses 
petted  and  teased  her  on  account  of  it ;  her  mates 
were  jealous  or  envious,  it  matters  not  which,  for 
one  symptom  was  as  flattering  as  the  other.  It 
was  not,  and  could  not  be,  without  a  flutter  of  the 
heart  that  she  met  this  great  lover,  almost  so  de- 
clared; it  hardly  occurred  to  her  to  resist.  What 
were  her  poor  little  weapons  of  defence — her  poor 
little  walls  of  silence,  her  poor  little  screens  of 
secrecy — against  such  artillery  as  his  ?  She  heard 
him  speak — and  he  spoke  well;  she  received  his 
presents,  and  he  was  splendid  at  giving  as  at  all 
else;  she  read  his  notes — and  kept  them  to  herself. 
But  Nello  was  perhaps  the  only  person  at  Court  who 
was  ignorant  of  all  this. 

The  Cardinal  had  sent  her  some  half-dozen  little 
notes,  each  with  a  ring,  or  a  jewel,  or  a  painted 
book  bound  in  silver.  These  notes  were  not  signed, 
but  bore  upon  the  wax  the  impression  of  a  Greek 
gem — Hercules  at  the  distaff  and  Omphale  leaning 
over  his  shoulder — a  beautiful  piece  of  work.  It 
was  a  famous  gem:  two  Popes  had  begged  it  of 
Gonzaga.  He  used  it  rarely,  it  was  a  valuable 
thing ;  but  he  thought  it  well  employed  for  this  par- 
ticular service,  and  told  himself  with  a  smile  that  it 
exactly  represented  his  case.  He  told  Emilia  so  too 
— the  hero's  neck,  the  hero's  bulk  prone  beneath  her 
little  foot!    How  could  she  avoid  a  leap  of  the  heart  ? 

299 


ToNd   Jiavetittires 

There  was,  for  the  rest,  no  harm  in  any  one  of 
his  notes.  Some  were  rather  pretty.  That  which 
covered  a  jewel  bearing  a  PeUcan  in  Piety  (in  white 
and  red  enamel)  said,  "So,  lady,  would  I  bleed  if 
you  might  thereby  be  served.  But,  alas!  what  is 
pious  duty  in  the  bird,  in  the  man  may  be  pre- 
sumption." No  harm  in  that,  I  hope:  at  most  a 
foolishness  in  Cardinals.  Another  said,  "Take  my 
Little  Hours,  Madonnetta  mia;  for  even  as  your 
pure  prayers  rise  up  to  the  great  Goddess  of  the 
Christians,  so  mine  (poor  pagan!)  wander  round  your 
feet."  The  prayers  of  Cardinals  should  be  otherv.'ise 
directed — but  let  it  pass.  The  man  was  strenu- 
ously in  love;  and  in  any  case,  enough  of  his  notes. 

Now,  when  August  came  and  Milan  lay  blister- 
ing in  dust  and  red  heat,  the  Ducal  Court  moved 
to  Pavia,  where  there  was  a  castle,  a  green  park, 
hunting  for  the  men,  and  grass  to  cool  the  feet  of 
ladies.  Thither  went  the  Duchess  and  her  house- 
hold; thither  went  Emilia  the  demure;  but  thither 
the  Cardinal,  cLetained  by  business  from  Rome  and 
a  state-marriage  which  hung  fire,  could  not  go. 
Love,  when  it  cannot  feed  on  words,  makes  shift 
with  letters;  and  if,  during  these  weeks  of  aching, 
Nello  was  living  on  the  letter-bag,  so  was  the  Car- 
dinal his  master.  Whence,  suddenly,  there  blazed 
a  thunderbolt,  which  fell  between  them  and  rove 
the  solid  earth.  Into  the  yawning  gulf  so  made 
must  tumble  Nello,  Emilia,  Mantua,  Milan,  and  all. 

It  was  Nello's  duty  to  open  the  great  man's  let- 

300 


ter-bag  while  he  himself  was  at  his  prayers.  With 
what  a  shock  it  came  upon  him  to  discover  a  folded 
square  within  it,  in  Emilia's  fine  hand,  I  leave  you 
to  judge  who  have  learned  the  youth  by  this  time, 
and  know  what  he  had  and  had  not  of  Emilia's 
little  affairs.  The  blood  swirled  in  his  head;  his 
heart  gave  a  wild  surge  upwards  into  his  throat; 
then  sank  like  a  leaden  ball,  and  he  knew  that  all 
the  color,  all  the  rhythm,  all  the  music  had  shud- 
dered out  of  life.  "  Riverendissimo  in  Xpo  patri 
ac  domino.  Domino  Guidoni  Principi  Cardinali  de 
Sancta  Maria  in  Cosmedin,"  etc.  There  was  no 
doubt:  the  flourish,  the  thin  penmanship,  the  spell- 
ing, the  seal — Hercules  and  Omphale,  the  priceless 
Smyrniote  gem,  sought  by  two  Popes — Emilia's 
letter,  the  Cardinal's  gift!  O  God,  the  wreck,  the 
wreck! 

The  Cardinal,  glowing  from  his  prayer,  found 
his  secretary  peering  at  this  hideous  fact;  saw  the 
little  square  fact  itself  shaking  in  his  hand.  He 
was  instantly  aware,  and  made  up  his  mind  in  an 
instant.     Now  was  the  time  for  a  sudden  stroke. 

"Aha,  my  Nello.  What  is  this  pretty  thing? 
Let  me  see  the  seal.  It  seems  familiar.  Ha,  the 
little  Colombina!"  He  did  not  keep  the  letter,  but 
having  turned  it  over  and  looked  at  the  seal,  put 
it  back  into  Nello's  hand.  He  sat  down  comfort- 
ably in  his  deep  leathern  chair,  crossed  his  leg, 
clasped  his  knee. 

"Well,   well,"   he   said,    "we   have   known   each 

301 


Tend   JTdi^cntures 

other  quite  a  season,  my  Nello.  By  a  bold  stroke 
you  claimed  my  protection,  deserved,  and  won  it. 
It  is  time  that  you  should  learn  more  of  your  mas- 
ter, what  manner  of  man  he  is,  by  my  head,  when 
the  priest  is  taking  a  walk  and  the  prince  a  siesta; 
when  the  soldier  is  at  his  ease,  unarmed,  and  the 
statesman  can  smooth  out  the  creases  in  his  brow. 
Hey,  my  little  humanist!  You  whose  study  is 
mankind — let  me  show  you  Guido  Gonzaga,  the 
naked  man — ha!" 

"Foul  flesh — a  mountain  of  it!"  Nello  shivered 
all  through  himself.  The  Cardinal  sat  well  back, 
and  put  his  hands  behind  his  head. 

''Come,"  he  said,  ''let  me  hear  what  the  lady  of 
Garda  has  to  tell  me.  She  is  a  sleek  little  witch, 
by  the  Blood — and  has  charmed  away  my  seal 
from  me.  And  has  used  it,  by  Hercules  himself!" 
Nello  did  not  move. 

"She  has  pricked  me — Nello,  I  will  own  it.  I 
am  a  man,  not  insensible  to  pricks. 

Ne  sit  ancillae  tibi  amor  pudori — 

Ha!  So  say  I,  so  say  I.  We  have  had  some  talk 
together — she  has  approved  herself  to  me — modest, 
sensible,  frugal  of  favors,  of  sufficient  nobility — in 
fine,  I  contemplate  a  pleasant  bondage.  But  read, 
Nello,  read,  what  my  shy  Omphale  pleads." 

Atrocious  pain  for  Nello,  but  not  to  be  refused. 

It  was  a  humble  letter  enough,  creditable  to  the 
writer  at  least.     The  Cardinal  thought  it  remark- 

302 


Cbe   Cove   ei)4$c 

able.  Did  not  Nello  think  it  so  ?  That  so  young 
a  lady  should  be  so  guarded — extraordinary!  Here 
it  is: 

"Sacred  and  most  eminent  Prince,  father  and  lord," 
wrote  EmiUa,  "I  return  on  my  knees  my  humble  thanks 
for  his  princely  thought  of  me,  esteeming  it  miraculous 
that  so  perexcellent  a  lord  should  stoop  to  the  grass  in 
his  path — " 

"Ah,  she  outvies  modesty  itself!"  the  Cardinal 
protested  with  shut  eyes.     "But  proceed,  proceed." 

"  — in  his  path.  As  to  what  Your  Eminence  is  so  gracious  as 
to  say  of  myself,  I  am  thankful  to  have  pleased  him.  All 
my  life  I  shall  strive  to  win  and  to  deserve  that  pleasure; 
for  to  what  other  end  do  I,  do  all  bondmaidens,  live,  but 
to  give  pleasure  to  those  whom  we  serve  ?  So  far  as  my 
duties  about  the  serene  person  of  Madonna  the  Duchess 
may  comport,  I  beg  Your  Eminence  to  believe  me  studious 
to  obey  him  in  all  things  commanded. 

I  prostrate  myself  at  the  Eminent  feet, 
Praying  that  they  will  believe  me 
Of  Your  Eminence 
The  most  humble,  devout,  grateful,  pious 
servant,       Emilia  Fiordispina." 

Of  Nello  it  may  be  truly  said  that  the  prevail- 
ing sense  he  had  was  of  pity  so  unutterable  that  he 
was  able  to  detach  Emilia  from  his  heart,  and  con- 
template her  for  what  she  seemed — a  white  ghost 
of  a  girl,  shivering  and  doomed,  in  some  infernal 
Sabbath  of  devils.  Tonguing  thieves,  lust  and 
clamor  personified,  came  leaping  about  her;  ruin, 
horror,  nameless  life  and  death,  were  hers.  He 
saw  her  end — bloodless,  a  shredded  rag — who  had 

303 


fond   flaccntures 

been  lovely  once;  he  saw  her  ghost — she  gibbered 
at  him,  a  mocking  sepulchre,  the  spurned  husk  of 
a  fair  woman,  trodden  like  an  orange-skin  after  all 
the  sweet  joy  had  been  sucked  out.  Beside  such 
a  fate  as  this,  a  bondage  to  Simone  della  Prova 
seemed  perfect  freedom.  All  his  love  wailing  in 
him  cried  upon  the  evil;  and  yet  he  was  dumb  be- 
fore it.  He  knew  himself  a  coward,  and  sickened 
to  know  it.  He  dared  not  gainsay  the  Cardinal. 
Vacant  and  frozen  as  he  sat,  the  letter  in  his  hand, 
he  was  suddenly  shaken  into  life  by  the  sound  of 
his  name. 

"Come  hither,  Nello,"  said  the  Cardinal. 

The    machinery    obeyed.     He    knelt    before    his 

master,   who  put  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,   and 

kissed  him.     "My  dear,"   said   Gonzaga,   "I   have 

loved  you  from  the  first  moment  of  our  meeting, 

and  I  believe  that  you  love  me  also.     You  have  so 

served  me   at  any  rate — and  now  you  shall  serve 

me  again.     My  senses  are  all  alight,  but  I  am  not 

acting  without  judgment.     I  need  that  little  person 

extremely,   more,   perhaps,   than   you   might   have 

thought  reasonable  in  me.     But  think  again.   There 

is  nothing  so  wayward   as  the   fancy  of  a   strong 

man.     What  says  your  Horace? 

Arsit  Atrides  medio  in  triumpho 
Virgine  rapta — 

It  is  SO,  indeed.  You  put  wine  before  him,  some 
great  vintage  that  has  lain  deep  in  the  earth  for 
two  decades,  browned  ruby,  smooth,  silky  as  balm, 

304 


the   Coi^e   Cbdsc 

holding  fire,  as  it  were,  in  essence.  He  will  have 
none  of  it:  his  fancy  for  the  hour  is — milk!  So  with 
women.  A  hot  Venetian,  all  burning  kisses  and 
straining  arms;  a  slim  white  Tuscan;  a  strapping 
Veronese — basta!  basta!  He  passes  them  all  with- 
out a  quiver,  and  lights  upon  a  staid  mouse  of  a 
girl,  like  this  Fiordispina;  her  will  he  have — no 
other.  Strange  that  it  should  be  so.  But  I  assure 
you,  my  friend,  she  has  set  me  afire.  Well,  I  might 
talk  forever;  let  me  give  you  directions.  This  ac- 
cursed business  of  my  niece  Dorotea's  marriage  will 
tie  me  here  for  another  fortnight;  meantime  my 
shy  captive  flutters  in  the  springes  of  Pavia.  You 
shall  leave  me,  Nello,  take  her  a  letter,  and  plead 
my  cause.  What  I  cannot  well  WTite,  you  shall 
say.  You  know  me  very  well — for  an  honest  man, 
a  prince  not  without  wisdom  to  temper  his  power. 
Tell  her  I  am  coming  on  wings.  Ah,  my  boy,  I 
may  be  a  happy  man  yet.  What!  Am  I  a  lover? 
By  my  soul,  I  am.  Does  this  entertain  you  ?  To  see 
the  puller  of  imperial  strings,  the  genius  of  battle — 
which  I  have  been  called  by  good  judges — with  a 
white  hand  under  his  chin?  Anima  mia — ha! 
Leave  me,  child,  to  write  my  letter.  Prepare  you 
for  your  journey — and  away." 

Nello,  in  a  white  garment  of  rage,  took  the  road 
for  Pavia. 
XIV.  The  Power  of  the  Dog 

Riding   up   through   the   dappled   glades   of   the 
park — the  towered  castle  of  Pavia  in  the  level  sun 

305 


Tend   JIdiJcntures 

of  afternoon — he  saw  a  herd  more  absorbing  to  his 
eyes  than  the  twinkUng,  antlered  deer:  a  party  of 
silken  ladies  and  lords — in  yellow,  in  green,  in 
white — who  walked  slowly  over  the  grass.  He  saw 
the  sun  strike  on  Polissena  Sforza's  hair,  on  Donna 
Anna's  white  arm,  on  Don  Tristano's  sword.  And 
then  he  saw  two  ladies  who  strolled  apart.  Their 
heads  were  near  together,  one's  arm  was  round  the 
other's  waist.  Even  at  that  distance  his  deadly 
fear  told  him  that  it  was  Emilia  who  was  held,  and 
Ippolita  Sforza  who  held  her. 

His  heart  jumped  with  fear,  but  with  rage  also — 
for  he  was  a  man.  He  stopped,  white  and  staring. 
"  She  shall  have  it  now — before  her  friends  and  lovers 
— the  Judas-price,  the  unholy  thing.  Yes,  while 
the  rage  is  on  me,  and  my  tongue  can  tell.  A  little 
more  sight  of  her  and  I  should  love  her  again — a 
disgrace  to  my  manhood."  He  signed  to  his  ser- 
vant to  lead  on  his  horse,  dismounted,  and  strode 
over  the  grass. 

Presently  he  saw  that  he  was  seen.  Ippolita  Sforza 
obser\^ed  him  first  and  spoke  to  Emilia,  a  laughing 
whisper  in  her  neck.  He  saw  Emilia  falter,  look 
quickly  up,  but  guardedly,  but  never  cease  looking 
towards  him.  "She  feels  her  shame:  it  beats  down 
her  head:  yet  she  must  have  it."  The  rest  of  the 
party  were  at  some  distance — by  a  great  oak.  The 
cavaliers  were  spreading  their  cloaks  that  the  ladies 
might  sit.  Ippolita  Sforza  drew  Emilia  to  meet 
Nello;  shyly  she  came,  and  dared  to  wave  her  hand. 

306 


CDC   noce   Cbasc 

Nello  bared  his  head  and  came  on  to  execute  judg- 
ment. As  he  neared  he  might  have  seen  the  blush 
of  welcome,  the  bright  light  in  Emiha's  eyes — if  his 
rage  had  let  him.  But  to  him,  as  then  he  was,  she 
appeared  all  scarlet,  cloaked  in  that  monstrous  love; 
she  leered,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  Cardinal's  cassock. 
He  could  not  have  spared  her  then  had  she  worn  an 
angel's  stole.  When  he  came  up  he  was  trembling 
all  over  and  like  to  die. 

But  he  knelt  to  kiss  Donna  Ippolita's  friendly 

hand. 

"Where  is  his  great  Eminence?"  she  asked  him, 
while  Emiha  hung  behind.  "Here  we  have  every- 
thing to  dehght  him — but  he  comes  not." 

Nello  fired  at  this  bitter  truth. 

"I  am  His  Eminence's  legate,  princess.  I  have 
a  message  from  him  to  your  companion.  It  is  no 
secret,  I  believe,  from  your  Grace.  Have  I  your 
leave  to  deliver  it?" 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course."  Seeing  Emiha  through 
red  mist,  he  held  out  to  her  the  abhorred  letter. 

"Madonna  Emiha"— she  did  not  know  his  voice 
— "His  Eminence,  my  master,  bids  me  thank  you 
for  your  letter — ^which  it  was  my  privilege  to  read  to 
him.  He  would  have  answered  it  in  person  but 
that  business  holds  him  still  in  Milan.  Here  he 
has  written  all  that  your  ladyship  can  desire  to 
know.  He  is  yours,  lady.  The  bargain  is  struck 
— your  wishes — the  honor  that  pertains.  I  take 
my  leave— O  God,  have  I  told  you  all  of  it?" 

307 


He  strained  his  face  away  that  she  might  not 
see  it,  but  his  voice  broke,  and  she  heard  that. 

"Now,  what  in  the  world — "  began  Ippohta 
Sforza  in  a  ringing  voice.  EmiHa  broke  away  and 
plucked  at  his  sleeve. 

"Nello,  Nello,  dear  friend,  what  is  this?  Never 
abandon  me,  Nello!     Speak  to  me  for  pity." 

Nello  turned  upon  her  a  bloodless  face,  quiver- 
ing and  furious. 

"Ah,  how  could  you  stoop  down  there  in  the 
mire!  Fie,  a  man-mountain,  a  hill  of  flesh!  Will 
you  be  buried  in  the  ruins  of  a  church  ?  After  your 
prayers,  your  weeping  to  the  cross,  your —  Why, 
if  all  the  tapers  you  have  lighted  to  show  love  pure 
were  turned  upon  you  now,  they  would  show  you 
speckled,  Emilia,  spotted  like  a  snake.  Ah,  come 
now,  come  now,  see  yourself:  let  me  show  you  your 
similitude  in  a  glass.  One,  two,  four,  six,  ten, 
twenty — jewels,  girdles,  chains,  verses — hey!  the 
great  Cardinal  gives  like  a  prince.  Of  whom  else 
have  you  had  so  much  and  so  many  times?"  He 
pointed  to  her  neck,  the  Smyrna  gem  was  there, 
burning  his  eyes.  "Hercules  and  Omphale,  done 
by  a  Greek  in  chalcedony!  Now,  is  not  this  a 
curious  sin,  when  so  small  a  woman  tames  a 
bulk—" 

"Stop,  or  I  kill  you,"  flashed  Ippolita  Sforza. 
"The  girl  is  down." 

Down  she  was,  struggHng  with  dry  sobs  which 
nearly  cut  her  in  half.     Nello  stood  mute  above 

308 


Cfte   Eooe    CDase 

her,    surveying   his    fine    piece    of   work.     Ippolita 
scorned  him. 

"You  are  at  Hberty  to  take  what  pride  you  can 
in  this  successful  performance,  young  sir.  For  my 
part,  I  consider  you  more  coward  than  fool,  if  that 
is  possible." 

"She  is  the  lure  of  the  Cardinal—" 

"Dolt,  she  loves  you  only." 

"She  wrote  meekly  to  him — " 

"Are  you  a  flint?" 

"I  can  recite  you  her  letter — " 

"Have  you  read  his?  I  am  ashamed  of  you. 
Go." 

"Pity  me,  princess.     I  adore  her." 

"Adore?  Do  you  call  this  love?  Pooh,  you 
love  yourself,  as  all  men  do.  They  use  women  as 
ointment,  to  smear  themselves;  and  when  they 
have  coated  themselves  sick — angry,  they  break 
the  pot.     Foh!  who  would  love  a  man?" 

"Ah,  Nello,  Nello!"  Emilia  moaned  where  she 
lay — and  down  went  he  beside  her. 

"My  soul,  my  soul — look  upon  me — ^pity  me — I 
am  in  hell." 

"You  deserve  to  be,  my  friend,"  said  Ippolita 
Sforza. 

Donna  Polissena,  her  sister,  came  lightly  up. 
The  others  followed  her,  curious. 

"What  is  this  comedy  you  are  at,  sister?  And 
why  are  we  not  to  behold  it  ?  Who  are  your  pros- 
trate comedians?" 

309 


Nello,  on  his  knees,  faced  about.  He  had  some 
honesty  left  in  him,  and  some  of  his  old  quality  at 
command.  He  stretched  out  his  arms,  as  if  asking 
for  punishment. 

"Strike  down.  Madonna,"  he  said,  "strike  down 
without  ruth  a  graceless  villain — a  suicide  who 
would  slay  his  best  self — an  atheist  who  denies  his 
revelation  of  Heaven.  Have  no  mercy — do  a 
piety  to  God!" 

"The  matter  is  this,  sister,"  said  Donna  Ippolita, 
"that  Httle  fool  on  her  face  has  given  her  heart  to 
this  little  fool  on  his  knees.  This  little  fool  whips 
her  for  a  spendthrift.  He  has  eaten  up  what  she 
gave  him,  I  suppose,  and  now  reviles  her  because 
there  is  no  more  in  her  cupboard." 

The  haggard  misery  of  the  youth  would  have 
struck  any  eye  which  had  not  first  seen  the  girl's 
despair.     It  struck  Polissena  Sforza. 

"This  is  too  bad,  sister,"  said  she.  "These  poor 
children  are  aching  for  each  other.  Let  us  leave 
them  in  peace  to  sob  the  truth  out  between  them. 
Come,  sister,  come,  Isotta,  come,  Manfredo.  Tris- 
tano,  come  you  especially.  We  do  harm  if  we  stop. 
Let  them  kiss,  you  let  them  cry;  let  them  cry,  you 
loosen  their  poor  tongues.  Once  they  talk  all  is 
well.     Come,  ladies — come,  sirs." 

And  now  Ippolita  chose  to  be  generous.  She 
put  up  her  hand. 

"Stay,  sister — you  are  always  an  hour  before 
the  clock.     Let  us  bind  them — let  there  be  a  treaty. 

310 


They  ought  to  be  pHghted  with  a  ring:  never  were 
there  two  lovers  more  disposed  to  each  other.  Give 
them  a  sanction,  they  will  never  stray  again.  For 
they  are  pious  children,  after  all.  Let  us  have  a 
betrothal — here  are  witnesses  enough.  Signori,  do 
you  stand  by  Nello.  Donzelle,  lead  the  Betrothed. 
Come,  come." 

Polissena  fired.  "  Pretty  finale !  Under  the  green 
tree." 

They  plighted  EmiHa  and  Nello  in  the  approved 
Lombard  fashion.  Ippolita  Sforza  said  the  words: 
it  was  more  than  half  a  play  and  quite  a  pretty 
scene.  Pohssena  and  Isotta  led  forward  the  shrink- 
ing Fidanzata:  the  princess  held  out  the  hand  for 
the  ring  of  troth.  Nello,  squired  by  Tristano  Sforza, 
by  Manfredo  Bentivoglio,  and  a  swarthy  young 
Orsini  from  Rome,  was  brought  to  the  tryst.  Fated 
to  be  a  vicar,  he  betrothed  her  with  Simone's  thin 
gold  ring,  put  it  on  her  finger  whence  he  had  drawn  it 
once  already,  held  the  cold  little  hand,  and  so  re- 
mained until  the  words  were  done.  Bidden  then 
to  kiss  the  bride,  he  touched  her  cheek.  "Now 
leave  we  them,"  said  Polissena,  and  so  it  was  done. 
The  long  velvet  shadows  sank  them  deeper  into  the 
dark,  the  deer  fed  round  about  them ;  so  handf asted 
stood  those  two,  serious  at  the  end  of  a  game. 

"You  have  me  now,  Nello.  Are  you  pleased 
with  me?" 

"Give  me  back  the  letter."  vShe  handed  it  to 
him  unopened,  without  a  word  of  protest. 

311 


"It  is  vours  with  the  rest  of  me,  Nello."  He 
looked  up  and  saw  her  tears  faUing  fast, 

"O  God,  what  a  devil  gnaws  me!"  he  cried  out. 
Then  he  tore  the  letter  across  and  across.  "Thus 
I  scatter  all  dark  clouds  between  me  and  thee. 
No  more  protestation,  no  backward  looks,  no 
doubting,  no  faint  hearts.  No,  but  trust  in  each 
other — courage,  hope,  love — wings  for  Heaven! 
with  thee,  my  saint,  with  thee!"  He  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her.  vShe  lay  all  silken  and 
still. 

With  Nello,  as  with  poets  in  general,  words  stood 
for  things.  To  say  that  he  loved  and  to  love  were 
one  and  the  same  act ;  to  cry  out  his  hopes  was  to  ^ 
have  them;  to  pray  was  to  have  prayer  answered. 
Not  so  with  her;  but  she  needed  the  sanction  of  a 
thing  done  before  she  could  express  her  acquies-  ' 
cence.  The  thing  was  done  now;  she  gave  him  kiss 
for  kiss,  returned  him  love  for  love.  Deep  in  her 
shining  eyes  he  saw  himself  enthroned,  and  swore 
her  the  most  perfect,  the  pattern  of  women.  The 
joy  of  which  he  supped  filled  him  full.  He  thought 
he  could  never  hunger  again. 

There  was  no  time  for  more  than  rapture  that 
night;  their  last  clinging,  their  last  kisses  robbed 
speech.  Emilia  fled  away  to  her  duty;  Nello  tes- 
tified to  the  new  moon,  and  walked  home  to  his 
lodging  nursing  his  new  heart.  Next  day,  when 
their  full  joy  might  have  begun — perversity  of  fate! 
they  could  get  nothing  but  alarms.     Each  had   a 

312 


tbc   Cove   GDasc 

sharp  dread,  each  a  vain  comfort  for  the  other. 
EmiHa  pointed  awfully  to  the  ring  on  her  finger. 
"Simone's  pledge,  Nello,"  she  said;  and  when  he 
kissed  away  her  fright,  "Thus  Simone  might  have 
kissed."  In  the  act  to  take  her  he  saw  Hercules 
plying  the  distaff  on  her  bosom.  "Gonzaga's  mark, 
O  God!"  he  groaned,  and  she  fell  crying  in  his  arms, 
"Save  me  from  Gonzaga!" 

The  two  panics  beat  their  courses  above  these 
young  heads.  They  were  like  children,  crouching 
under  the  trees,  while  above,  in  the  black  air,  storm 
met  storm  and  pealed  ruin  on  the  world.  It  was 
a  feverish  time,  without  stay,  or  peace,  or  assurance, 
a  time  of  straining  together,  of  kisses,  of  hot  tears, 
and  cold  shivers,  of  doubt  and  misgiving.  He 
could  not  trust  her,  nor  she  him.  She  paled  and 
burned,  till  she  crept  about  like  a  Reproach  made 
flesh;  Nello  bit  his  nails  to  the  quick,  and  started 
at  every  touch  on  the  shoulder.  Such  hours  as 
they  had,  not  spent  in  the  glades  of  the  park,  they 
passed,  tearless  and  speechless,  in  one  church  or 
another.  From  altar  to  altar  they  dragged  one 
another,  from  saint  to  saint,  from  Mary  of  the  Seven 
Dolours  to  Mary  of  the  Seven  Wounds.  What 
courage  he  had  to  spare  her,  he  lent.  It  was  all 
to  Gonzaga's  advantage;  for  she  could  think  only 
of  Simone — that  he  would  come  and  kill  her.  "Ah, 
Simone,  my  soul!  I  have  seen  the  Cardinal  beat 
Simone.  He  handled  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  raw 
colt;  he  left  him  trembling  all  over,  broken  to  the 


voice."  She  smiled  wofuUy  and  shook  her  head. 
"We  have  to  face  Simone's  master,"  says  Nello. 
"Yes — but  Simone!"  says  she.  It  is  a  poor  way 
of  gaining  courage  in  the  dark  to  learn  that  the 
day  is  still  more  dreadful.  Emilia  took  fright  of 
Gonzaga,  but  she  lost  none  of  Simone.  His  scowl- 
ing black  shadow  was  forever  looming,  turned  all 
her  sweets  to  sours,  and  drove  her  at  last  to  des- 
perate measures. 

Nello  found  her  on  a  day  at  their  place  of  meet- 
ing, and  went  to  embrace  her.  She  clapped  her 
arms  across  her  bosom  and  shrank  from  him.  "No, 
no;  leave  me,"  she  muttered,  frowning  and  white. 
"I  am  a  snake — unclean."  He  took  her  in  spite 
of  herself,  and  swore  her  his  holy  one.  He  kissed 
her  clay-cold  lips,  but  could  not  move  or  warm  her. 
"Perjured,  most  false!"  she  cried.  "O  Nello,  my 
soul  is  dead.     Pity  me,  Nello,  and  forgive." 

He  gave  her  what  comfort  he  had;  she  lay  trem- 
bling, uninspired,  inert.  "I  think  the  plague  is 
upon  me,  Nello.  I  feel  one  taint.  I  am  deep  in 
perjury.  Simone  betrayed,  the  Cardinal  betrayed, 
and  now  you,  my  love — O  Lord  Christ!" 

She  held  up  fearfully  the  left  hand.  "The  trai- 
tor hand!  Bum  it,  burn  it,  Nello,  before  Simone 
come.  Be  sure  he  will  come,  be  sure  of  it.  Kiss 
me  once,  my  Nello,  but  never  again.  We  have  done 
sinfully  who  meant  to  do  well.     O  love,  good-by." 

All  he  could  win  of  her  was  the  grace  to  see  her 
as  chance  might  afford.     She  agreed  that  he  need 

314 


not  return  to  Milan  until  he  was  sent  for ;  but  there 
must  be  no  more  secret  meetings,  "assignations," 
she  called  them  now.  "All's  to  do  again,"  he 
groaned.  "She  loves  me — but  wretchedly.  I  can 
only  pray."  His  courage  was  gone,  his  resource, 
his  philosophy,  such  as  it  was,  even  his  wit.  One 
thing  only  stayed  him  from  entering  religion,  the 
necessity  of  seeing  her.  Much  good  might  that  do 
him ;  he  became  her  miserable  shadow.  He  haunted 
her  footsteps,  but  never  spoke  to  her,  and  she  never 
looked  his  way.  He  slunk  out  of  sight  of  the  Court, 
dared  not  be  seen,  yet  had  to  see.  More  unhappy 
young  man  than  Nello  Nelli  the  history  of  Pavia 
has  not  yet  revealed. 

The  Cardinal  wrote  daily  with  messages  and  en- 
closures. Nello  sent  them  on  to  Emilia  by  a  trusty 
hand.  What  was  done,  doing,  or  to  be  done  upon 
them  he  could  not  learn ;  but  the  Cardinal  announced 
his  speedy  arrival.  And  meanwhile  Emilia  passed 
and  repassed  before  him  where  he  lurked,  walking 
staidly  behind  the  Duchess,  riding  with  the  prin- 
cesses, with  the  young  lords  and  esquires  of  the 
household.  Marvel!  he  saw  her  laugh,  talk,  ask 
questions,  give  light  replies.  It  was  as  if  she  saw 
him  not,  as  if  she  had  never  known  him — never  put 
her  lips  to  his,  never  felt  his  arms  about  her,  nor 
clung  to  him  with  hers.  "She  laughs,  O  Heaven! 
Are  women  devils,  then  ?  Was  a  woman  the  Mother 
of  God  ?  Harlot-hearted — O  Saviour,  save  my 
Emilia!"     Nello  was  in  hell,  it  seems. 

315 


Tond   Jldvcnturcs    ^ 

But  Emilia,  paler  than  she  ought  to  be  perhaps, 
yet  shapely  and  adorned,  sleek  in  silk,  with  a  jewel 
in  the  midst  of  her  forehead,  and  a  very  fine-cut 
gem  on  'her  breast,  went  about  her  daily  work  as 
if  all  were  well — sang  to  her  Duchess,  laughed  when 
her  princesses  were  merry,  was  gentle  in  reply  to 
Sforza  or  Borromeo,  Manfredi  or  Belgiojoso;  said 
her  prayers,  made  her  confessions,  took  the  Car- 
dinal's gifts,  read  his  letters,  and  answered  them 
dutifully;  was  never  seen  to  cry  or  heard  to  moan. 
Women  are  your  real  stoics.  One  of  the  maids  told 
Nello  that  in  her  sleep  she  tossed  about  and  mut- 
tered, too  fast  for  them  to  catch  the  sense.  She 
was  not  thought  to  be  happy :  let  that  comfort  him 
in  his  own  misery.  Was  she  miserable  then  ? 
Who  knows  ?  A  maid  of  honor  has  no  business 
with  misery.  She  is  there  to  be  courteous.  Emilia's 
courtesy  could  never  be  called  in  question,  for  she 
was  of  great  family,  a  Fiordispina  of  Garda,  of  a 
house  famous  for  loyalty  to  the  Dynasty  of  Milan 
and  to  all  princely  stocks  in  alliance  with  that. 
Ah,  there  need  be  no  fear  but  that  Emilia  would 
do  her  duty. 

She  did  her  duty  indeed!     She  did  it  when  the 
Cardinal  wrote  naming  the  day  of  his  arrival;  but 
she  said  not  a  word  of  it  to  any  living  soul. 
XV.  The  Incredible  Stoop 

At  this  time,  it  is  to  be  related,  Simone  della 
Prova,  now  tyrant  of  seven  citadels  on  the  Venetian 
frontier,  received  a  letter.     He  was  sitting  in  the 

316 


Che   Cooe   €Da$e 

hall  at  Castelfranco — one  of  his  added  towns — 
when  it  came,  in  conference  with  two  square-faced 
men  in  red  robes.  He  took  his  letter,  and  held  it 
tossing  in  his  hand  while  he  continued  his  talk. 

"What  do  you  say  to  us,  Simone?  Is  it  a  bar- 
gain?" 

"I  will  consider  what  you  report." 

"We  answer  for  Sforza,  remember." 

"So  I  understand  you.  I  have  your  master's 
letter.     And  the  money — " 

"The  money  is  here.     Now,  as  to  the  Cardinal — " 

"Leave  the  Cardinal  to  me,"  said  Simone. 

When  the  Venetians  had  taken  their  leave  he 
opened  his  letter  and  read  it  slowly,  twice  through. 
He  sat  staring  at  it,  chewing  his  tongue  for  maybe 
half  an  hour;  at  the  end  of  that  paroxysm  he 
laughed,  or  barked  rather — like  a  wolf  at  night  in 
the  snow.  "Trick  for  trick,  hey?"  he  said,  and 
called  for  his  secretary  in  a  voice  which  made  the 
fellow  tremble  as  he  ran. 

"Write,  Tebbaido,"  said  he. 

The  secretar}'  sat  on  the  floor.     "Ready,  sir." 

"Write  thus:  'Traitress,  I  come  in  judgment.* 
That  is  aU.     Seal." 

"The  direction,  my  lord?" 

"Madonna  Emilia  Fiordispina,  at  the  Castle  of 
Milan.     Xow  send  me  Fabrizio — go." 

Fabrizio,  a  blunt  Venetian  of  the  inland,  came 
blinking  to  his  master.  Simone  put  a  heavy  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

317 


Tend   Jiapenturcs 

"Saddle  two  horses,  and  gallop.  You  are  to  be 
at  Milan  by  noon  to-morrow,  though  you  break  the 
hearts  of  both  good  beasts.  If  she  whom  you  seek 
with  this  letter  be  not  in  the  city,  you  are  to  find 
her.  Here  is  your  safe-conduct.  I  start  six  hours 
after  you,  and  take  the  same  road,  with  what  speed 
you  who  know  me  and  Renegado  will  guess.  If  I 
am  nearer  to  you  by  thirty  minutes  at  any  stage 
of  the  journey,  I  shall  kill  you,  Fabrizio.  You  are 
riding  for  your  life.     Now  be  off." 

Those  six  hours  of  his  in  his  subject  burgh  were 
memorable.  Never  was  known  such  a  case  of 
dreadful  deliberation  and  performance.  He  was 
as  vibrant  as  a  stretched  cord,  his  very  voice  cut 
the  air.  He  did  judgment  in  the  court-yard  and 
saw  it  executed,  with  a  square  full  of  hushed  people 
waiting  on  his  commands.  There  were  nine-foot 
walls,  grass  ramparts,  and  a  moat  between  him  and 
them;  yet  had  he  been  in  their  midst,  a  whip  in  his 
hand,  he  could  not  have  kept  them  in  silence  more 
absolute.  When  the  bodies  had  been  huddled  into 
the  death-cart  he  called  up  his  captains,  chose  a 
viceregent  from  among  them,  and  gave  him  minute 
orders  for  the  six  days  following.  At  the  stroke  of 
noon  on  the  sixth  day  he  would  be  back,  he  told 
them,  and  was  believed.  To  Cittadella,  to  Cam- 
podarsego,  to  Montebelluna,  to  San  Martino,  to 
Camposampiero,  and  to  San  Giorgio  delle  Pertiche, 
all  his  towns,  he  sent  governors  with  plenary  pow- 
ers.    He  ate  hardly  anything,  and  drank  nothing 

318 


at  all.  At  the  end  of  his  time  he  gave  order  to 
saddle  Renegado,  his  black  barb;  and  at  the  prick 
of  the  hour  appointed,  cantered  smoothly  out  of 
his  town  gates,  and  heard  them  clang  behind  him. 

Passing  Cittadella  at  a  steady  pace,  but  not  draw- 
ing rein,  he  had  the  satisfaction  to  be  challenged 
by  his  own  outposts,  to  give  them  the  word  of  the 
day,  and  to  see  afar  off,  at  the  end  of  the  avenue 
of  dusty  acacias,  his  own  well-barred  gates.  In  an 
hour  from  that  Renegado  was  swimming  the  Brenta. 
He  had  no  need  to  whisper  in  those  tender  ears, 
laid  flat  for  a  sign;  his  was  a  great  horse,  full  of 
heart,  who  knew  that  much  was  to  be  required  of 
him  before  nightfall.  Simone  let  him  go  his  own 
pace,  a  swinging  gallop,  let  the  reins  hang  free;  he 
was,  as  always,  from  the  knees  upwards  a  part  of 
the  lunging  beast:  so  much  so  that  he  seemed  not 
to  be  human.  He  breathed  wholly  through  his 
nose,  and  looked  dead  before  him,  in  a  stare. 

He  skirted  Vicenza  in  the  brown  dusk,  crossed 
two  little  racing  streams  which  merge  just  there — 
the  turbid  and  the  green  water — to  form  the  Bachi- 
glione;  then  coming  to  some  common  land,  where 
the  sunburnt  sods  afforded  certain  softness  to 
the  feet,  he  checked  his  shining  Renegado,  and 
walked  him  for  an  hour.  At  Arzignano,  a  little 
village  just  outside  the  debatable  country,  where 
a  long  spur  of  the  Alps  lies  like  a  rugged  finger  over 
the  fields,  he  baited  for  the  first  time  since  leaving 
Castelfranco.     Fabrizio  had  come  in  and  gone  just 

319 


fond   Jiaoenturcs 

six  hours  before.  He  had  changed  horses  there, 
and  dosed  one  with  meal  and  water.  Both  were  in 
a  lather,  and  one  pretty  well  gored  in  the  flanks. 
Simone  saw  to  Renegado  with  great  care,  cooled 
him,  washed  and  rubbed  him  down,  fed  and  wa- 
tered him.  He  took  his  own  food  standing,  and 
at  the  end  of  two  hours  and  a  half  was  ambling 
through  chestnut  woods,  watched  by  a  shy  young 
moon. 

He  reached  the  swirling  green  Adige  by  seven 
in  the  morning,  and  refreshed  both  man  and  beast 
by  the  swim ;  pushed  on  desperately  to  Bussolengo, 
whence  lemon  trees  and  trellised  vines  stretch  to 
the  shores  of  Garda.  There  he  stayed.  Fabrizio 
had  passed  through  five  hours  and  three-quarters 
earlier,  but — "He'll  never  reach  Milan  with  the  led 
horse,"  said  the  landlord  of  the  inn.  "He  had  bet- 
ter," was  Simone's  short  comment. 

Two  hours  later  yet,  he  rode  through  Peschiera 
under  a  burning  sun.  Garda  itself  looked  white 
hot;  the  tower  of  the  Fiordispina  was  trembling, 
the  ilex  woods  all  about  it  were  motionless  and  pale 
with  dust.  He  had  not  been  there  since  that  night 
when  he  had  held  Emilia  to  his  heart  and  sworn  her 
his  forever;  but  he  took  no  sort  of  notice.  If  any 
memory  touched  him  he  opened  not  his  mouth,  if 
his  rage  goaded  him  he  did  not  grind  his  teeth. 
He  rode  through  the  place,  under  the  very  shadow 
of  the  tower,  unwinking,  unregarding,  undeterred. 
Like  a  carved  man's  his  eyes  were  blank ;  the  hand 

320 


Cbe  Cove   Chase 

that  held  the  reins  to  the  pommel  might  have  been 
blocked  out  of  stone. 

Flagging  crest  and  drooping  quarters:  Renegado 
cried  to  him.  At  Bagnolo  he  stayed  three  hours. 
He  washed  the  good  horse's  legs,  his  face,  and  chest 
with  aqua  vitae,  fed  him  stoutly,  and  went  to  get 
news  of  Fabrizio.  "Five  and  a  half  hours  away, 
sir,"  they  tell  him.  "He  has  left  a  dead  horse  a 
mile  down  the  Garda  road.  Cracked  his  heart  by 
order,  as  I  understood  him  to  say." 

"I  saw  nothing  of  it,"  says  Simone.  "Hey,  that 
may  verv  well  be,  my  lord,"  says  the  man  with  a 
grin.  "Perhaps  he  knew  what  he  was  about." 
"May  be  so,  but  he  has  lost  his  law." 

He  spent  the  rest  of  his  time  walking  up  and 
down  the  inn  yard,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  his 
face  rigid  and  expressionless.  He  ate  nothing. 
"There's  a  maggot  groping  in  that  signore's  head," 
said  one  groom  to  another,  "which  numbs  his 
brains.  Wait  a  bit,  wait  a  bit,  till  your  worm  works 
another  inch — and  then  pity  the  fine  beast  he  rides." 
There  was  no  fear  for  Renegado;  but  Simone  be- 
strode more  beasts  than  one. 

Folk  upon  the  road,  the  stir  of  the  day's  affairs; 
heavy  ox-carts,  little  companies  of  dusty  soldiers, 
priests  by  twos  and  threes,  friars  silent,  cowled,  in 
file,  loitering  girls,  warned  him  where  he  was.  Then 
afar  off,  in  the  misty  gray  of  the  heat,  marble  pin- 
nacles, towers,  the  bulk  of  some  huge  fortress,  walls, 
battlements,    a   dome.     He   reached    Milan   before 

321 


Tend   fldt>entwre$ 

nightfall  and  made  such  a  clamor  at  the  gate,  you 
would  have  thought  the  Venetians  there  in  force. 
"La  Fiordispina,  sir!"  cried  a  guard.  "Dio  mio, 
how  many  more  urgencies  upon  this  lady's  account  ? 
Is  she  Queen  of  Sheba  then?  Is  she  Empress  of 
the  East?  Five  hours  gone  there  came  a  man  all 
panic  on  a  horse  all  blood  with  the  same  cry.  I 
told  him  what  I  tell  your  lordship — she  is  not  here, 
she  is  away.  She  is  with  the  Court  of  Madama  at 
Pavia — taking  the  air — bathing  her  eyes  in  green. 
Seek  her  on  the  grass,  and  don't  leave  me  a  dead 
horse  on  my  hands." 

"Ha!  so  he  left  a  dead  horse?" 

"I  can  show  you  the  skin,  or  what  remains  of  it 
— ^peppered  with  spurs  like  a  sieve.  Our  man  flew 
away  on  foot  as  if  the  devil  was  behind  him —  And 
I  think  that  the  devil  was,"  he  added,  as  Simone 
pounded  back  to  find  the  Pavia  road. 

All  night  he  pushed  on;  and  Renegado,  whose 
noble  heart  was  nourished  by  a  purer  flame,  never 
denied  him.  But  Renegado  was  nearly  spent. 
Simone's  mouth  was  at  his  ear  continually,  and  at 
every  fierce  whisper  of  his  voice  it  was  pretty  to 
see  the  sensitive  twitch,  the  gallant  attack,  and 
pitiful  to  see  the  flagging  come  so  soon.  The  end 
was  near — none  too  soon  for  the  horse.  The  tower 
of  San  Michele  uncertain  in  the  foggy  dawn,  the 
convent  roof,  deep  in  green,  far  off  to  the  left;  the 
massed  clouds,  which  were  the  trees  of  the  park; 
last  of  all  the  castle  turrets,  the  lodges,  the  tents 

322 


about  the  walls;  the  banner  of  Sforza  lazy  in  the 
still  air— " Courage,  my  soul!  Courage,  my  good 
beast!"  breathed  Simone  to  his  horse.  "We  are 
here;  thy  work  is  done,  and  mine  is  at  hand.  God 
comfort  thee,  my  Renegado,  that  deniest  only  fear." 
Whatever  else  he  hated,  he  loved  his  horse. 

In  the  yard  of  an  inn  of  Pavia,  Fabrizio  was 
heavily  asleep,  but  awoke  at  the  clatter  of  Rene- 
gado's  hoofs,  saw  his  master,  and  began  to  pray 
vehemently.  Simone  ignored  him  until  he  had 
seen  to  his  horse.  But  when  all  was  done  which 
could  be  done,  in  a  few  strides  he  was  upon 
him. 

''You  have  delivered  the  letter?" 
"Sissignoria." 
"When?" 

"Eh,  Dio  mio!  So  many  hours  ago — six,  seven, 
eight!     Who  can  tell?" 

"You  are  lying.  It  was  less  than  three.  It  is 
now  ten.  You  delivered  it  at  the  coming  out  from 
mass  at  seven." 

"Sir,  sir,  have  a  little  mercy!  My  horses  failed 
me — you  cannot  flog  dead  flesh.  I  came  from 
Milan  to  Pavia  afoot — and  ah,  saints  in  heaven,  how 
I  ran!  I  am  nearly  dead,  Signore,  nearly  a  dead 
man.  Look,  master,  look!"  He  held  up  his  boot 
— with  half  the  sole  away.  Simone  was  unmoved. 
"You  have  killed  my  horses — you,  that  had  two 
to  my  one.  I  have  killed  nothing — as  yet — and 
have  gained  three  hours  upon  you.     A  messenger 

323 


Tond   Jiaocnturcs 

who  cannot  ride — humor  his  beasts — who  disobeys 
my  orders,  is  useless.     I  will  see  you  presently." 

Fabrizio  clung  to  his  knees.  "My  lord,  my  lord, 
pity  me!" 

"Speak  of  that  later,"  said  Simone,  and  spurned 
and  left  him. 
XVI.  Resumption 

Lurking  under  the  beech  boughs,  loathing  himself 
for  the  slave  he  was  become,  on  watch  (as  always) 
for  Emilia,  Nello  saw  her  come  in  company  over  the 
park  that  early  forenoon.  It  so  happened  that  he 
was  expecting  the  Cardinal  from  hour  to  hour.  He 
wondered,  with  a  sickening  of  the  heart,  whether 
that  was  her  expectation  also.  He  dreaded  it  so 
much  that  he  could  almost  have  prayed  at  any 
time  now  that  the  end  should  come :  the  end, 
and  the  worst,  that  so  he  might  despair  in 
peace.  He  little  knew  what  the  poor  girl's  expect- 
ance was,  what  tryst  she  was  out  there  to  keep, 
what  turned  her  faint  between  the  flashes  of  the 
talk. 

She  was  walking  with  her  mates  Isotta  and 
Sigismunda,  a  black-haired  Manfredi,  and  two  or 
three  chattering  pages,  who  chased  each  other  in 
and  out  of  the  trees.  This  company  passing  very 
near  where  Nello  was  hidden,  she  with  one  sidelong 
cast  of  the  eye  saw  his  shadow  there.  Just  at  the 
moment  Manfredi  had  paid  her  a  daring  compli- 
ment; between  her  blush  and  dextrous  parry  she 
had  seen  Nello  and  he  her.     But  she  was  in  com- 

324 


Cbe   Cooc   Cbasc 

pany  and  he  was  not,  and  if  the  sight  of  him  hurt 
her  heart,  no  one  must  know  it. 

He  heard  the  general  laugh  at  Manfredi's  bold 

I    attack,  saw  Emilia  turn  her  head  to  meet  it  full. 

:  "Heartless — harlot-hearted,  0  God!"  groaned  the 
miserable  boy;  but  stayed  where  he  was,  peering. 
Impossible  to  help  it!  He  followed  all  their  prog- 
ress over  the  grass — from  shade  to  sun,  to  shade 
again. 

A  page  struck  a  chord  of  music,  and  began  to 
sing  in  saucy,  boyish  tones — a  song  of  light  love. 
He  walked  backwards  before  the  rest,  improvised 
audaciously,  and  more  so,  and  more:  he  was  re- 
solved to  make  La  Nina  laugh.  So  they  w^ent  on 
by  degrees  and  degrees,  Nello  keeping  at  his  dis- 
tance, until  presently  he  saw  Emilia  stop  short, 
stagger  for  a  minute,  lean  her  head  as  if  she  was 
faint,  press  upon  Sigismunda's  arm.  Sigismunda's 
questioning  look  downwards,  a  quick  survey  by 
Isotta,  Manfredi's  chin  in  the  air,  the  scared  boys 
— ^what  was  this? 

Then  he  saw  what  they  had  seen.  A  tall  figure 
of  a  man  on  horseback  came  pacing  up  the  gr^ss 
ride — a  bareheaded,  close  -  polled,  young  man  in 
gleaming  body-armor,  booted  to  the  thighs.  Square 
shoulders,  thick  neck,  small  head — "O  God,  Si- 
mone!" 

He  saw  Emilia  held  between  the  two  girls;  Man- 
fredi  go  to  meet  the  new-comer.  The  little  page 
dropped  his  viol.     All  his  bright  temerity  was  gone; 

325 


Tond   fldoentwres 

he  shrank  to  a  nurser}*  size.  All  eyes  were  on 
Simone  save  Emilia's.  Hers  were  cast  down,  and 
intently  down.  She  swayed  her  bent  head  about 
as  if  in  the  troubles  of  a  dream.  Nello  could  see 
that  she  was  chalk-white,  and  had  a  crying  fear. 
He  broke  away  from  his  hiding-place  and  went 
towards  her.  But  Simone  reached  her  first,  and 
Xello   stopped. 

When  he  had  dismounted  and  thrown  the  reins 
to  one  of  the  lads;  when  he  was  so  near  that  she 
could  hear  his  short  breath,  Emilia  looked  up.  She 
said  nothing;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  what  he  held 
in  his  hand — a  letter. 

"Is  this  yours?"  He  spoke  as  to  a  thief  caught 
in  the  act. 

"Yes,  Simone."  Xello  guessed  at  the  whispered 
words.  Sigismunda,  ver\-  red,  put  her  arm  round 
Emilia's  body. 

"And  you  have  my  answer  to  it?" 

"Yes,  Simone." 

The  savagen^  smouldering  in  him  broke  out  in 
flame.  '"Ah,  untirable  duplicity  of  women!  Ah, 
traitress  bom,  hardy  merchant  that  sells  to  one  the 
cheek,  to  another  the  hand,  to  another  the  longing 
eye,  the  word  in  secret.  How  long  will  you  be 
out  on  3*our  traffic?  Is  this  tolerable?  By  life 
and  death,  not  so  tolerable.  Are  you  an  encoun- 
terer?  do  you  angle?  You,  who  swore  yourself 
mine  utterly  by  Garda;  you,  to  whom  I  vowed  all 
my  faith,  from  whom  I  have  never  once  wavered 

326 


in  my  thought,  for  whose  sake  all  women  have  been 
dross  in  my  treasury,  laughed  out,  counted  for 
:  nought;  you,  for  whom  I  have  fought,  bled,  killed, 
conquered,  achieved — look  now  at  the  end  of  all 
my  toils  and  the  answer  to  all  my  strong  prayers, 
that  when  I  seek  for  you  on  high,  on  the  throne 
;  where  I  saw  you  for  a  queen,  you  are  not  there — 
the  throne  is  bare,  the  crown  tumbles.  No,  but 
you  come  crawling,  trailing  through  the  dust,  like 
a  little  snake,  to  fasten  on  my  feet.  What  are  you 
doing  down  there  in  the  dust?  You  were  quir- 
ing with  angels  when  I  left  you;  you  were  bathed 
in  the  blue.  Now  you  sing  hallate  with  pages,  go 
to  market  with  minions,  are  offered  here,  shrugged 
away  there,  appraised,  taken  as  a  makeshift.  O 
Heaven,  what  bargain  is  this  ?  But  you  know  me 
too  well,  it  appears.  You.  falter,  you  repent.  By 
the  soul  of  God,  I  will  never  let  you  go.  However 
you  are,  I  take  what  I  have  won.  Hold  out  your 
left  hand.     Whose  ring  is  that?" 

"It  is  yours,  Simone." 

"I  know  it;  but  I  never  put  it  there.  Is  it  with 
that  you  played  me  false?" 

"Yes."     She  motioned  it  with  her  head. 

"Give  it  me,  then." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  Simone  pulled  off  the 
little  blue  ring,  bit  it  in  half  with  his  teeth,  threw 
down  the  pieces,  and  trod  them  under  his  heel. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "give  me  that  jewel."  Spoil  of 
Smyrna,  desired  of  Popes,  the  Hercules  and  Omphale 

327 


%9mi  Jlitfatarcs 


X2v^  -JS.  :~^Ti:  ""TTg  Trort  ir:s  rtrsssc 


I 


265r  rrogL  m  2~ 


Jwcr  qmsE    iL^^wt^  msi  is  one  a: 

■S   ULILTT   SI 


:is  r-ii^aed      A   r 


rn'riMi  tf^  ST.~  nT-issfi  ST  -Tie  sT^rz-r    HE  nac  TIT  nnr. 


Cfte    Cafe    Clise 

nc  WS.7  csn   =^ch  rzgr:   2^   ^iiese   oe  -^      -' 
are  ahcve  zz^  'xir'jL.   :iLar:2rs  ci  "in. 
tbe  shears- 

rile    r3.   ''"••^.   — '•^vp* —     ?~i''-2^x   sod.   ?ir*^ii^ 
j   "iisx  ^— r-T-p  TT^^  a  lord  :2i  "iie  c^rtli.  and  "iisr  be 
J   V-^^^tfH-r    poor  vicar,  omsi:  Isrr  dc"«n  :21s  •rsrs.     3b 
i    ij-iiesced:  ix  wss  resscassiiE    whsx  had  a. 
j    :ic    ic  in  2.  wcrid    ■j:^,'"rlf!d  by 
!    :r-2i:r::ied  wr±L  "ite  rssi '     ^nd  ^rrf^.  "=»    ■^wlBt? 
1    icve-     Lcaieiy  vrrTJin    raeEk  she  bcwisd  ber  bead 
I    -22  -die  ^T^rrr^ryn  :i  a  trnr  dcase!     Sis  "iDck  ::r  bcr 
T^ks-   wctLid  ?G    srrTORi:  sfacZx  iirsc   bc2ics2=e    ±2* 
t    -iie  SuTSirfi  -±  ber  ±L2in  wood  be  a  s=snr±.  "=  ber 
,    and  be-  fewer  "ric  :=3Dre  »*iii'iiw:y  ±2r  'zet  zsrdsn 
p^f-^o«;p>r^   bi   s^Tgyi      Tr:2e  ir  was-   -nc  b:  was:  3e 
rnricns  icnnnai^cii  rf  a  !=2rL  zrirc^  rDr  sar'-itg  3 
bs   ^  •'■  »»»       A->r  -i^y   ■  ■■  ■  M»    ar  jeasn.   w<&  -ttt  ot- 
med  :2:  :^2e  TUfisr.     V^je  be  was.  peer  S^ks — box 
be  rrcnid  Tre 

Xajced  as  be  saw  ''■   "^^  nrw    '-is. 
Vy;  -^mrnr,  bm  cSd.  3src  reTCCt  ^     fe 
dfiSETved  ir:  bis  baxserSy  bocr  was  owesi     lie  lad 
srresd  bis  y^-Trjp  wmss  zid  zisncsd  n 
a  dii  -  >u^'i-LL  bar   --jme  zn 

— —    _^_   -iiHd     be  was   t— 
zi~-LiT   5e-     But  bcw" 

WH'T-      Tbey    bad    Ts.ifp^     _  ^=^==1 

Sizicne.    afar    r:c    :"\er   "iK   t  '^it    2t  ms 

-^'d^"b.      BtLt  wbcse  W3S  tbar  ^is"  ^z-^it    -izz::? 

wrriciiis:  by  xae  iJIS^;,>   r-irad*     FnrnijgjF  bad  De.*:ins 
»  5^ 


fond   nivzniUTti 

aware  of  it,  had  reined  up  his  horse  to  watch,  and 
now  was  moving  warily  forward,  like  some  beast 
of  the  desert  that  sees  danger  in  the  distance,  and 
prepares  to  meet  it. 

It  was  the  Cardinal  of  Mantua  coming  to  find 
Emilia.     Nello  gave  a  little  cry,  and  ran  with  all 
his  might  towards  his  fate. 
XVII.  The  Last  Bout 

Cardinal  Gonzaga  sniffed  mischief  in  the  wind 
when  he  saw  who  the  oncomer  was,  and  rose  to 
meet  it.  His  face  was  a  broad  sheet,  blank  and 
bland.     He  greeted  his  enemy  with  heartiness. 

"Bravo,  Simone!"  cried  he,  reining  up.  "Be 
you  the  happily  met,  my  champion;  and  may  I 
be  the  first  of  the  allies  to  take  your  hand.  The 
lion-breaker — ha!  The  dictator  of  Venice — ha! 
By  the  Saint  of  Padua,  my  son,  but  your  scamper 
over  Abano  will  need  a  new  Titus  Livy.  I  have 
the  very  man  for  it.  Or  will  you,  like  Csesar,  be 
your  own  chronicler?" 

"I  must  have  a  short  w^ord  with  Your  Eminence 
— in  private,"  said  Simone. 

"Now,  my  hero,  now!"  cried  the  Cardinal. 
"Upon  my  soul,  I  can  refuse  you  nothing."  He 
signed  to  his  retinue  to  advance,  turned  his  horse 
over  the  grass,  saw  Nello  coming,  and  hailed  him. 
"Here  comes  my  little  secretary,  Simone,"  he  said. 
"We  three  were  once  before  in  conference.  I  have 
no  secrets  from  him — nor  need  you  have."  Simone 
took  no  notice.     Nello  came  up  and  stopped  short. 

330 


CDe   Cooc    CDasc 

He  had  forgotten  his  manners;  he  did  not  salute 
his  master. 

"Three  days  ago,  Your  Eminence,  I  received  this 
letter.  Be  pleased  to  read  it."  Simone  handed 
over  a  folded  paper.  If  the  Cardinal's  breathing 
troubled  him  when  he  saw  the  famous  seal,  the 
hand  which  took  it  was  unshaken,  and  he  could 
look  steadily  at  the  writing. 

"Ha!  a  lady's  letter,  if  one  may  judge.  My  dear 
Simone,  what  do  you  ask  me  to  do?" 

"I  ask  you  to  read." 

The  Cardinal  handed  it  over  to  Nello.  "I  have 
secretaries,  my  good  young  sir.  Nello,  read  me 
this  letter."     Nello  read  it  without  a  falter. 

To  her  most  Excellent  Friend  and  good  Lord,  Messer 
Simone  della  Prova — 

Excellent  and  dear  friend,  for  many  days  I  have  been 
seeking  the  force  to  write  you  a  letter,  but  have  not  been 
able  to  find  it  until  now.  It  is  perhaps  a  weakness  in 
women,  though  it  may  be  (as  I  hope  it  is)  a  law  of  their 
nature,  which  forbids  them  to  intrude  themselves,  unless 
required,  into  the  bolder  counsels  of  men;  nor  (believe  me) 
should  I  have  ventured  now  if  my  necessities  had  not  been 
great. 

Excellent  lord  and  friend,  I  should  assuredly  have  an- 
swered your  letter  if  you  had  ever  written  any  to  me  or 
sent  me  any  token  of  your  mind  towards  me  until  now 
of  late,  when  I  was  shown  a  ring  and  learned  that  you  still 
had  me  in  remembrance.  Four  years  is  a  long  time  in 
which  to  have  no  message  from  a  friend — and  if  I  was 
siirprised  to  receive  your  ring  you  will  not  blame  me,  I 
hope.  I  wear  it  on  my  finger,  as  in  duty  I  ought;  but  I 
must  tell  you  the  truth,  which  is  that  my  mind  is  not  al- 
together as  it  was  when  we  were  together  by  Garda;    nor 

331 


Tend   jfldvetttures 

is  that  to  be  wondered  at,  seeing  that  I  was  a  child  in  those 
days  and  since  then  have  had  experience  of  many  things. 
It  is  not  easy  in  Milan  to  do  well;  it  is  not  easy  to  dis- 
cover where  duty  becomes  inclination,  and  inclination  is 
a  sin.  I  have  been  troubled  lately  about  my  soul,  seek- 
ing by  all  means  safety  for  it,  if  that  be  a  possible  thing 
in  Milan.  And  now  of  late,  dear  friend,  there  has  been 
proposed  to  me  a  discreet  alliance — 

The  Cardinal  caught  and  stifled  an  exclamation. 
Nello  read  dryly  on. 

— a  discreet  alliance  which  would  give  me  assurance  against 
disaster,  comfort  to  my  parents  (whose  necessities  are 
known  to  you),  and  a  certain  influence  in  the  world.  I 
thought  it  right  and  honorable,  however,  to  let  you  know 
so  much,  so  that,  if  you  should  desire  your  ring  back  again, 
you  should  send  a  messenger;  or  that,  at  any  rate,  you 
should  not  suppose  that  I  ignored  your  right  to  be  informed. 
Alas!  we  cannot  pledge  what  we  have  not,  and  the  prom- 
ises of  children,  like  the  kisses  of  their  mouths,  testify  no 
more  than  their  simplicity. 

With  kissing  of  hands  I  am, 
^  Your  Lordship's  friend  and  servant, 

Emilia  Fiordispina. 

Nello  ended.  The  Cardinal  found  himself  more 
moved  than  he  could  have  expected.  A  certain 
warmth  crept  into  his  voice,  and  a  good  deal  of 
honest  conviction. 

"  I  protest  that  is  a  gentle,  virtuous  lady,  Simone," 
he  said.     Simone's  face  twitched. 

"Your  Eminence  remembers  the  terms  of  our 
alliance?" 

"Perfectly,  perfectly." 

"There  has  been  treachery  somewhere.  That  is 
clear." 

332 


CDe    Cooc    Cbdsc 

"Ah,  by  God,  I  should  not  say  that!  No,  no. 
In  promising  to  deliver  your  token  to  the  lady  I 
did  not  engage  to  become  her  keeper." 

"Your  Eminence,   then,  delivered  the  token?" 

The  Cardinal  squared  his  shoulders.  "I  did  not. 
My  secretary  here  delivered  it."  Simone  looked  at 
Nello,  who  did  not  flinch.  He  remembered  him 
now.  He  had  returned  him  the  same  steady  scru- 
tiny at  Cittadella. 

"Personally,"  continued  the  Cardinal,  "I  de- 
livered your  message — and  in  doing  that  much  I 
considered  that  you  could  hardly,  all  things  taken 
into  account,  call  upon  me  for  more.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 
The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  once  more  Simone 
had  to  lower  his  flag  before  his  adversary.  He 
shifted  his  ground. 

"This  matter  is  verv  dear  to  me — it  is  life  and 
death.  I  have  come  at  once  and  taken  action. 
I  have  destroyed  the  token  which  I  gave  by  other 
hands — unwisely,  as  it  seems — and  have  substituted 
one  of  my  own  delivery.  I  am  not  to  be  trifled 
with,  let  thieves  beware.  What  is  mine  I  keep. 
And  I  am  no  orator,  to  dispense  vain  wind.  I  am 
for  deeds — those  who  know  me  say  that  I  have  a 
knack — it  is  not  for  me  to  say.  Now  I  claim  Donna 
Emilia  as  mine  by  vows  not  to  be  broken.  I  hold 
to  what  I  had  before — I  shall  always  hold  to  it.  If 
it  is  Milan  which  tampers  with  treachery  against 
me,  let  Milan  choose.  If  it  is  Mantua,  Lord  Car- 
dinal, let  Mantua.     Venice  was  my  father's  country 


formerly,  and  has  been  mine.  Do  you  think  I 
have  no  letter  from  Mocenigo?  None  from  Pic- 
cinnino  their  captain  ?  Do  you  think  I  have  no 
price — no  market?  You  are  mistaken  then.  Let 
Milan  beware — if  Milan  it  be." 

The  Cardinal  put  up  his  hand.  "Stop  there," 
he  said,  "resolve  your  doubts  as  you  will.  I  will 
have  none  on  my  account.  Do  you  trust  me  or 
not?" 

Simone  stared  at  him  for  a  while,  then  shrugged. 
"Who  knows?     Whom  am  I  to  trust?" 

"That  is  my  question.     Do  you  trust  me?" 

"How  am  I  to  say?  What  do  I  know — save 
this,  that  there  has  been  treachery?" 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  am  ready  to  do  for  you," 
said  the  Cardinal  coldly.  "I  will  secure  the  young 
lady's  establishment  at  Mantua,  in  the  household 
of  my  sister  the  Marchioness.  She  will  be  much 
under  my  eyes  there — perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to 
serve  you — " 

It  was  a  time  to  admire  the  intense  black  of  the 
Cardinal's  eyes,  if  admiration  had  been  in  Simone's 
way.  Nello  could  never  withhold  a  tribute — even 
to  villany,  if  it  were  bold  enough.  He  could  not 
withhold  it  now.  And  yet  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  what  he  was  going  to  do,  and  ought  to  have 
been  thinking  of  his  end. 

Simone  had  no  thanks  for  this  handsome  offer, 
nor  any  distrust  of  it  either.  His  belief  at  present 
was  that  some  Sforza  had  betrayed  his  honor.     "If 

334 


I  could  be  sure — "  he  began,  muttering  half  to  him- 
self; but  the  Cardinal  would  have  none  of  that. 

"You  can  be  sure  of  nothing,  Simone,"  he  said 
curtly,  "least  of  all  when  women  are  in  question." 

"It  is  true,  it  is  true!  They  will  give  her  no 
peace — desperate,  breathless  work!" 

"As  breathless  as  you  please,"  said  the  Cardinal, 
and  believed  that  he  had  him.  For  a  second  time 
in  his  short  life  Nello  saw  death  cheek  by  jowl; 
and  now  in  an  uglier  guise  than  when  it  had  worn 
the  executioner's  red  livery.  That  had  seemed  a 
Carnival  death.  Here  was  death  by  violence;  for 
ugly  passion  would  lend  it  terror.  So  must  it  be; 
he  dared  not  quail. 

"If  I  could  learn  whose  was  the  villany — " 
Simone  was  grumbling  to  himself. 

"I  will  tell  you,  Simone,"  said  Nello,  speaking 
with  a  croak  in  his  voice.  "The  time  has  come. 
Two  traitors  are  before  you.     I  am  one." 

Simone  stared — then  laughed  grossly.  "You! 
with  your  milk  teeth!     Pooh,  a^ou  white  face." 

"Little  hound!"  cried  the  Cardinal,  and  would 
have  ridden  him  down;  but  his  rein  was  caught. 

"Stop,  my  lord,"  Simone  said.  "We  will  hear 
this  fellow  out." 

"Simone,"  said  Nello,  "I  have  loved  Donna 
Emilia  and  done  my  utmost  against  you.  I  have 
been  no  traitor,  for  I  never  gave  you  a  pledge — 
nor  has  she,  for  she  would  take  none  but  yours. 
But  I  have  kept  off  a  worse  than  myself.     Now, 

335 


Tend   :Ha<^enture$ 

I  tell  you  that  if  you  let  her  go  to  Mantua  with 
this  Lord  Cardinal  it  will  be  her  ruin." 

The  Cardinal  gave  a  short  cry.  His  face  was 
curious  to  see.  He  wrung  his  head  round  and 
stared  at  the  sky,  as  if  to  get  an  explanation  thence, 
"Have  I  nourished  a  viper — this  little  snake!" 
He  gaped,  could  not  believe.  "Viper!  Viper!" 
The  tragic  mask,  with  its  grin  awry,  was  his;  but 
not  the  tragic  calm.  He  leaned  over  the  saddle 
and  studied  this  little  snake  with  real  surprise; 
and  then  with  his  dagger  struck  down  at  the  boy 
as  you  might  strike  off  a  wasp,  but  stabbed  Nello 
deep  between  neck  and  shoulder.  The  lad  sobbed, 
and  for  a  moment  or  two  stood  stiffly  in  his  place, 
staring,  nodding  his  head.  He  put  out  his  arms 
to  balance  himself,  swayed,  and  did  not  fall.  The 
blood  came  in  a  spurt  down  his  black  velvet;  he 
looked  at  it,  pondered  it,  half  dazed,  half  wonder- 
ing. Slowly  then  his  eyes  grew  filmy,  lost  their 
sight;  his  arms  jerked,  and  held  him  no  more;  he 
swayed  wider,  fell,  lay  beneath  the  horse. 

Simone,  quite  unmoved,  said,  "That  tells  me 
the  tale.  Cardinal,  you  have  tricked  me;  but  we 
will  cry  quits,  for  I  have  tricked  you.  I  have  ac- 
corded with  Venice,  and  have  in  my  pocket  Sforza's 
proposals  to  the  Ten.  He  is  tired  of  the  war.  I 
think  you  will  hesitate  before  you  continue  it.  I 
certainly  think  so.     I  salute  Your  Eminence." 

He  turned  and  went  back  across  the  park.  The 
Cardinal  rode  thoughtfully  to  his  lodging. 

336 


Che    Cooe   CDasc 

Late  at  night,  Emilia,  muffled  in  a  hood,  rode 
pilHon  behind  her  strong  lover,  and  clasped  him 
close.  Going  out  of  the  park,  the  horse  swerved 
violently  and  nearly  threw  her;  but  Simone  spur- 
red him  forward. 

"Dearest  lord,  what  was  that?"  she  cried,  her 
cheek  caressing  his  shoulder. 

*"Twas  a  dead  man,  or  some  such  thing,"  said 
Simone.  "A  man  was  stabbed  out  here  this  morn- 
ing.    You  need  not  regret  it." 

"My  soul,  I  have  you — I  regret  nothing!"  whis- 
pered Emilia,  and  kissed  his  shoulder. 
Epilogue — Philosophy  in  Gray 

Nello  Nelli  to  Politian — "  .  .  .  Here  at 
Urbino  I  have  books  and  leisure  once  more.  Apollo, 
who  does  not  love  to  see  any  other  served  than 
himself  and  his  chaste  sister,  has  now  been  appeased. 
I  have  been  very  near  to  death,  and  in  a  case  where 
death  seemed  the  only  gain;  but  martyrdom  was 
denied  me — I  am  not  without  hope  that  I  can  give 
longer  testimony  than  my  blood  could  have  pro- 
vided. In  short,  after  labors  as  great  as  those  of 
Alcides,  torments  as  long  as  those  of  Sisyphus,  and 
no  more  fruitful  (you  may  think),  I  emerge  sane 
and  whole.  With  my  hot  blood  I  poured  out  my 
fatal  passion,  and  return  to  my  studies  with  what 
appetite  you  may  guess.  The  Duke  is  most  ur- 
bane— as  a  soldier  I  have  never  seen  his  equal  but 
once;  as  a  philosopher  he  has  none  since  Pericles 
fought  in  Samos.  .  .  . 

337 


?ona   JIdpenturcs 

For  she  knows  just  how  far  a  woman  can  be  com- 
panion to  a  man,  and  is  not  jealous  of  my  books. 
In  short,  my  Pohtian,  you  may  felicitate  me  upon 
my  nearing  bliss. 

".  .  .  I  meditate  an  exposition  of  the  Cantica 
Canticorum,  mystical  and  exegetical,  in  seven  books. 
Your  advice  will  be  much. 

"...  Messer  Vittorino  da  Feltre,  that  shepherd 
of  young  minds,  salutes  you.  I  have  spoken  twice 
to  the  Duchess  of  Urbino  in  your  regard.  She  loves 
you  well.  The  Cardinal  of  Mantua,  I  am  told,  is 
lately  dead.  What  is  this  that  I  hear  of  a  Ferrarese 
friar — a  Dominican  —  who  inveighs  against  good 
learning?  What  says  your  Laurentius  of  the  ig- 
norant rascal  ?  If  we  had  him  in  Urbino  we  would 
cast  him  from  the  Rocca  to  appease  the  Nymphs. 
Valete." 


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